How to flirt with a fluffy girl!

Good afternoon!

I've just spent two lovely days doing nothing much, and yet, since I wasn't at work, I got a lot done! 

Yesterday was going to write a post about how a very fit 20 something tried to flirt with me at the pool at Gold's.  The tentative title was going to be "Wow, my new swimsuit is MAGICAL."

However, since procrastination is the sign of a good two day vacation, I waited until today to write it, and now the post has a lovely chocolaty ending!

So yesterday I was at Gold's pool with Peaches.  She's off of school, because it's state Teacher's-Get-Away-From-These-Children-for-two-days-and-call-it-conference.  She decided not to join me in the pool, mostly because the last time she did a water Zumba class broke out and she has yet to shut out the images of a dozen elderly fluffy women shaking their maracas in the water.  She opted for the bikes and weights.

So I swam laps...but not alone.  The one other person in the pool was a younger gent, very fit, and very tan, and very, very into doing his laps.  I figured we'd swim side by side, (well, I was in one lane and he was in another one and there was a lane between us and he was swimming roughly three laps to my one, but still there were moments when we were sort of side by side, so it counts) and not speak to each other. This has been my experience the other times I've gone swimming at Gold's.

I was also sort of breaking in my new fabulous swim suit.  I can't stress enough how comfortable I feel in it and how much coverage it gives me.  I'm not self conscious at all about fat or...ahem...unshaven areas (Hey, it's practically winter...you think I'm shaving my legs when I'm wearing pants 23.5 hours a day?  Think again!) because this suit is so great. 

What I didn't realize was just how great the suit was!  After several laps  (his, not mine.)  Fit Boy started a conversation with me.  I assume he was talking to me, there was no one else in the room.

Fit Boy:  "You like the salt water in this pool?"

ME:  I didn't realize it was salt water.

FB:  Oh yeah.

ME:  Well, that would explain my dry skin when I get out of the pool.  (I haven't flirted in eons, apparently.)

FB:  Yeah, I like swimming in the ocean better.

ME:  Well, they have pictures of beaches on the wall, so you can pretend.

FB:  Yeah, it's not real though.

After this sexually charged conversation, we resumed swimming.  About ten minutes later, he started in again.

FB:  Do you like swimming laps?

ME:  Sure.

FB:  Yeah, I like swimming laps.  It's good.

ME:  (Getting a little creeped out.)  Sure.

We again resume swimming.  You could cut the sexual tension with a knife...

About ten minutes later, (can you believe I was actually swimming laps for ten solid minutes?  I was quite impressed!)  Fit Boy stopped swimming and started just staring at the water.   Just staring at it....


Just staring....

About the time I felt I should start looking for sharks, since we were, after all, swimming in salt water  (I have my doubts on that.)  FB started talking again. This time, however, we were on opposite corners of the pool so the joke was on him.  I didn't have my glasses on an therefore could not hear him.  All I made out was, "Underwater...."

I paddled a bit closer and realized he was talking about swimming underwater.  And I also realized he was looking right at me.  (Not, I don't know what his face looked like...no glasses.  I know he was fit and he was tan, and he wasn't all that tall.)  so I thought, to be polite, I should respond.

ME:  You want me to swim underwater?

FB:  No, I'm going to swim underwater. 

ME:  Oh.  Okay.

FB:  It's not dangerous.  I've done it before.

ME:  (Wondering why he's sharing this bit of information with me.)  Okay.

FB:  But if I don't surface for a while...

ME:  (surface?  We're in 36 inches of water.)  Oh, if you don't come up for air in like five minutes I should call someone?

FB:  (Obviously hoping I would suggest mouth to mouth)  um...yeah.

ME:  Okay.

So Fit Boy takes several deep breathes and then plunges...into 36 inches of water.  I paddle back and forth, and he swims under water for a very impressive....half a length.

Call the paramedics!  He was under water for twelves seconds!

He tried a few more times to extend his distance underwater, and he was getting better.  Then a couple of folks showed up to soak themselves in the hot tub, so our private time was over.  That didn't deter this soggy Romeo from wooing his modestly suited Juliet!

FB:  Okay, do you think I can go out and back underwater?

ME:  (you do realize, we've known each other about 30 minutes, I have no idea what your face looks like and honestly, in the entire time we've know each other you haven't swum more than half a length underwater.)  Sure...go for it!

FB:  Okay, I will! 

He took several deep, and very dramatic breaths, and then dove down deep...probably 34 inches at least.  I continued paddling back and forth, keeping a motherly eye out for him. 

He made it a length and one body length.  I cheered for him when he surfaced.  Hey, you have to encourage the youngsters!

He got out of the pool shortly thereafter, but not before he spoke one last time to me.

FB:  I'm giving it up today.

ME:  You'll do it next time!

FB:  You think?

ME:  Sure, why not?

He then popped out of the pool...had I known I was speaking to someone in a SPEEDO  I probably would have kept quiet....and then he left.  And my world was dark.  Mostly because I decided to swim underwater for a bit.  I made it half a length.  Of course, I didn't take the big dramatic breaths....

But that's not where this story ends.  It was where I was going to end it, but then I went cheese and bread shopping with Hubby to Brennan's.  For those of you familiar with Brennan's, you know it's impossible to get out of there for under $50.  I generally have lunch there with all the samples and then even the score by buying tons of fruit and cheese.  So we were getting bread and cheese when I texted Skippy about something.  An older gent saw me texting and said, "If you're texting my wife, tell her I'm not here."

We all shared a good laugh.

Later, while I was shopping for cheese, Hubby joined a group of men loitering between the beer case and the butcher's counter.  Because that's where men are men.  I heard them discussing Hubby's sister's bar in Lake City, CO.  (The Packer Bar, if you're that way.  Tell Lynn and Gavin I sent ya!)  I picked my cheese and ambled over to them.

The older guy asked me what I got and I showed him.  Then he said, "Do you like chocolate?"

ME:  Yes.

OG:  Just a minute.

ME:  Okay.

OG:  Here ya go.

He handed me a cupcake from his package of half a dozen.  It was a lovely cupcake...thick sour cream chocolate frosting.....yum!  I carried it like the Holy Grail while we finished our shopping.  Older  Guy sort of stalked us around the store.

OG:  You gonna eat that or watch it?

ME:  Well, I'm sort of messy, if I eat it, I'll get frosting all over my face.

OG:  Well, this is the place for that kind of thing! 

ME:  Okay.

So I stuck my finger the in frosting and then licked my finger...much to his delight. 

OG:  I told you it was yummy!

See, my friends, THAT is how you flirt with a fluffy girl!  Maybe it's because he gave me chocolate. Maybe it's because he wasn't wearing a speedo and trying to impress me with his lack of swimming prowess.  Or maybe it's because I was wearing my glasses...but I'll never forget that older man.  He was a darling, and I hope he makes his way to Colorado.  He says he was once a professional ice sculptor.  I'd like to see his work!

THE GROSSEST STORY I'VE EVER TOLD!

WARNING!  TODAY'S POST CONTAINS MATERIAL NOT SUITABLE FOR MEN AND THOSE WITH LOW TOLERANCES FOR GROSSLY FUNNY STORIES. 

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.  THAT MEANS YOU, TODD!  :)



I'm moderately certain I scared a Direct TV saleswoman back to California.

Here's how it happened:

Friday night Hubby, Peaches and I were shopping for a new TV at the local warehouse membership club store.  The TV we've owned for almost 5 years was starting to show signs of falling apart, and we'd been saving for one of those new fangled HD dealios anyway, so Friday night was the night. 

We found the model we wanted and, since you can't just buy a TV, you have to buy all sorts of props and cables and players and what not, Peaches and Hubby ran about the store whilst I stood guard over our new PRECIOUS.  The Direct TV sales person was standing there and, since I'm incapable of standing next to someone for five seconds without talking to them, I started chatting with her.

The topic of our old TV and when and where we bought it came up.  As luck would have it, I have a great...but very gross story...to go with the purchase of our last TV.  So I thought since the Direct TV person was a lady, and since we'd been chatting for about 10 minutes, we were obviously close enough friends I could share this story with her.


The Last TV we bought we had to buy during the Winter Olympics of 2006.  Our older model died in the middle of the ski jumping events and there was no way I was missing ski jumping.  So we got into our 4 door sedan and drove around to every Walmart in the area  (Because actual electronic stores are too expensive and hey, we're smart enough to get our own TV to our own house on our own.) looking for the biggest model we could afford.  Finally, we located one in a town about ten minutes from home.  It was a flat screen, but the old kind  (You know from way back in 2006 when flat screen meant the screen was flat, but the butt of the TV weighed about 65 pounds.)

Buying the TV was not a problem.  When they brought the box out...I looked at that and said, "There is no way that box is going to fit in our car."

Hubby replied, "True, but we are going to take the TV out of the box and then put it into the car."

(For the record, this is sort of how every electronics purchase we make goes.  I have yet to bring home a TV/Computer/Stereo/Microwave box.  We always leave it at the store because our car is too small to handle the big boxes.)

I had my doubts, but hey, he's a smart guy, so I followed him out of the store to the windswept frozen parking lot.  How windy was it?  Well, when we opened the box, the first thing I had to do was catch the thing foam packaging sheets that flew out of the box.  While I was chasing that, Hubby was dragging the TV, which weighed about as much as a husky third grader, out of the box (the size of said third graders' bedroom) and trying to get it into the back seat of the car. 

Yeah.  The basic rules of Geometry have to apply.  You cannot shove a TV that is four feet deep and four feet wide into a space that's...less than that.  I don't care how cushy the seat it, or how hard you shove, that TV is NOT going to fit.

Didn't stop Hubby from putting a hole in the plastic lining of the car door, however.

At this point, I stop chasing rubbish around the icy parking lot.  Hubby says he might need a bit of muscle to help.  I give it my best shot, but let's face it, I'm not much muscle in the best of circumstances.  Standing there, trying to cram a massive piece of outdated electronics into the back of a car that simply will not bend its shape to help, while Arctic winds are swirling around us...that's not when I'm at my strongest. So I went back to the the store, where no less than three slacked jawed teen male employees were standing, watching us do this  and LAUGHING.  I looked at them and said, "We need a bit of help."

Two of them couldn't stop laughing long enough to refuse me.  The third one, who must have felt sorry for me or thought I was some sort of Walmart corporate spy looking for good customer service, put on a pair of gloves and followed me back out to the iceberg where hubby was still wrestling with the car and TV.

Walmart employees at your service!

(The big box had, by this time skittered itself about a mile away on the ice.  None of us bothered to even acknowledge it was gone.)

After about ten more minutes in the frigid air, Hubby and Helper decided that the best route was to fold the passenger seat all the way back and put the TV in there...like a weird shaped older relative you have to put in the front seat.  It was all okay.  The TV was in the car, Hubby was in the car.  And I squeezed myself into the tiny space in the back seat.  And that's when I realized something very shocking...and very gross.

My maxi pad had frozen.  Solid.

I rode home, cramped in the back seat while the TV had the prime spot...and my nether regions were FREEZING because of the ice pack down there.

Ladies, ponder that for a moment.  And, as you're laughing, don't forget to breathe!

So I was telling this story to the Direct TV lady on Friday and she looked at me in horror and said, "It's gets cold enough that that can happen?"

Wait until she has to shovel her first "wet snow."

The good news from this is yes, we got a shiny new TV that's actually FLAT.  It fit in the car just fine, and I may stop reading and writing altogether because I'm in love with this thing they call HD! 

Oh, and no maxi pads were injured in the writing of this post!

I'm a Wii bit crippled today, and I think I just called myself a bad name.

Good afternoon!

Wow, do I feel like an underachiever today!  Seriously.  New Girl and I are being very quiet in our separate offices, neither working and neither doing much of anything.  So of course, when Dee called I was overjoyed to talk to her!

A side note:  Dee has lost 21 pounds since August!  YAY DEE!

Now, while talking to Dee and growing very jealous of her success, I realized that even though I haven't lost a measurable amount of weight (Though I am wearing heavier clothing so I get to subtract more from the total on the scale at work, which gives me a flicker of encouragement), I have been far more faithful in moving my carcass around in an exercise sort of mode.  In fact, my legs have been pretty sore the last couple of days, and I wasn't sure why.

Until I thought about it.

Wednesday I worked out HARD on the Wii.  I did the ten minute step thing where you just step up and down on the board.  You're supposed to do 800 steps in 10 minutes.  I, of course, saw this as a challenge to beat because hey, I'm not that out of shape, right?

Apparently, I am.

I managed to do almost 1200 steps in that 10 minute time frame.  I ignored the smooth female voice admonishing me to slow down, keep a steady beat, stay with the beat that was ticking away. "No way, Voice,"  I said, "I'm going to beat this game and show it how in shape I am!"

Result?  I am all but crippled.  My left calf muscle is so tight and sore,  I nearly fall over every time I get out of my office chair.  Let's add this to my already full force heel pain and you can picture how graceful I am moving from a sitting position to a standing position.  I should actually try out for that commercial where the older folks can't get out of their recliners without some hydraulic lift.  Or maybe I could get a part in one of those scooter commercials.  Or, I could always be that woman shouting, "I've fallen!  And I can't get up!" 

I suppose I should admit to something else as long as we're on the topic of the Wii.  I actually called my Mii a bad name.  I was doing the hula hoop thing, you know where you have to move your hips in a circular motion and every so often try to "catch" a hula hoop that someone else has tossed.  You do this by leaning to one side when the hoop comes toward your Mii.

It looks simple enough...until the sadists throw a hoop at Mii.

The problem is there's a certain amount of timing needed for your Mii to catch the hoop and if you don't keep your hips moving you'll drop the hoops you're already spinning and, well, that won't give you good results and the Wii will probably age you by 25 years.  So I work really hard on this game.  It's supposed to tighten your core, after all.  (A nice by product of something I see more as a challenge since Peaches is really, really good at this one.)

So Wednesday I was hula hooping like crazy, but I didn't seem to be able to catch any of the hoops.  At one point I leaned over so far, I fell off the board.  I got up, but not before my Mii dropped all her hoops.  That's when I let the colorful insult fly.

From the kitchen, Peaches yelled, "MOM!  Don't call yourself that!"

I was going to tell her that I wasn't calling myself anything...until I realized that I actually was.  See, your Mii is you...on the Wii.  And my Mii, except for the fact that she's way more adventurous than I am, and thinner  (there is a limit to how fat you can make your Mii) does look like me.  So, I basically called myself a bad name...That can't be healthy.

Okay, score one for Gold's.  At least at Gold's I don't have to watch myself exercising, and therefore I'm not tempted to call myself anything.

And on that note, I wish you all a great weekend!

Every group of Barbies needs a Fluffy Girl!

(Okay, this is a shameless rerun of a blog I posted last spring on my writer's blog.  However, for those of you who didn't read it...and that would be most of you...I think this fits better over here, mostly because it's my blog and I'll do with it as I please!  Happy reading!)
Last spring I attended what I like to think of as Rick Springfield's annual week vacation in lovely Milwaukee.  Let's ignore that it was yucky and storming out there the week of his four day stint at Pottawatomie Bingo and Casino.  Dee and I attended his concert and had a great time!  We also met a couple of wonderful women, Wendy and Vicky, who, may I say, gave me the biggest thrill in my writing life!  (More on that in a late blog.)
 At the concert, I was sitting in the second row of the balcony, so my attention was not as focused on Rick as it would have been if I'd been in the second row on the floor. Which means I actually took a few moments to absorb impressions of the folks around me. (Hey, I'm an author, it's what I do.)

Can you spot the Fluffy Girl?

The group of women in front of me really caught my attention, not because they were wearing glow in the dark bunny ears (those ladies were sitting to my right) and not because they had a blow up dog dressed as Ron, the dog on the cover of Rick's "Working Class Dog" album. (those ladies had seats on the main floor.) No, what struck me about the women in front of me was the fact that there were two very skinny ladies and one...fluffy girl.

You see this all the time, but especially at concerts. In a group of women, there will be at least one girl who is a bit more...healthy. (I'm that person in my group, so I get to write this without offending anyone.) I've always wondered if the fluffy girl feels like a fifth wheel or anything like that. I know I do sometimes, which is probably why I make up for it by being a bit louder a bit funnier, a bit more jovial.

As I watched these three women I realized that I was looking at this all wrong. The fluffy girl isn't the tag along. She's not the one the Barbie dolls have to bring along. She's the anchor! She's the most important person in the group.
What do I mean? Easy. Sitting in the balcony, Barbie one and Barbie two were slamming plastic cups of white wine at a pace well beyond their weight class. Since they were precariously perched on spiked heels built for altitude, as they got tipsy, they started wobbling as they leaned on the railing of the balcony. Leaning to the point of nearly falling into the laps of the partiers below.

Fluffy girl to the rescue!

Fluffy Girl steadied both those Barbies and kept them from crashing over the railing several times during the concert. She helped them out of their seats after the concert and I'm sure she drove them home and tucked them into their beds.

So, thinking about it, I realized that every group of Barbies needs a fluffy girl to act as an anchor so when the Barbies play too hard, Fluffy Girl protects them from harm.

If you are a Barbie, be kind to your Fluffy girl friend. She's the one you'll be leaning on someday. If you are a Fluffy girl, I salute you! You are my sister, and this world needs more of you! (And, by the way, I wrote Dream in Color with the Fluffy Girls in mind.)

Wii aged Mii

Good afternoon!

So, the other day, after being declared by my Wii to be 10 years younger than I am, I decided I was going to Wii more.  Hey, Wii is more fun, you get immediate feedback on how successful you are, and, biggest bonus, Wii tells you you're 10 years younger than you are.

I made the conscious decision to do the Wii in the morning, before everyone else gets up.  In my house...well, that's 5:15 AM.

Yep, you read that right.  5:15 AM.  That means, if I'm going by my normal night schedule, if I go to bed after the second episode of Friends, which ends at midnight, I get a full five hours of sleep.  That's with a 15 minute time to fall asleep built in.  Even with the help of Tylenol PM, I don't fall asleep that fast.  And sleep deprivation, they keep telling me, is a bad thing.  I don't know how bad it can be, though.  I haven't slept more than 7 hours any night of my life since 1992 and it hasn't affected me one bit.  NO, I DO NOT SUFFER FROM SLEEP DEPRIVATION!  I LOVE EVERY SECOND OF IT!

Getting up this early to exercise also forces me to ignore the fact that I loathe, loathe, LOATHE getting up in the morning!  I love the early morning hours, but I usually love them more when I'm in the process of going to bed rather than getting up.  I am not one of those people who gets lost in the magic of a sunrise.  I look out the window and say, "Well, I obviously got up too early since I'm up before the SUN!" 

Nonetheless, I set my alarm for 5:15. My plan was to get up at 5:15, and do a half an hour, which would put me done with the work out at 5:45, about the same time Hubby gets out of the shower and the "Wake up Skippy" time begins.

Those of you familiar with the Wii Fit Plus programs know that this is, of course, impossible.  First of all, you have to do the body test.  That takes, I know now, five minutes.  Then you have all the time between the little games you play for the "ready set go" you get from Wii Fit plus.  An actual half hour workout on Wii Fit Plus, unless you're doing the Advanced Island Biking, and you get lost for exactly 30 minutes (It once took me over an hour to find all those stupid flags.) will take about and hour.  It just does.

Overachiever. 

Then let's add the 20 minutes it took me to actually rouse myself to the point of standing up. (My cell phone alarm clock has the most annoying ring tone...it's like little bluebirds in Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.  You'd think the rage factor in me would make a snooze alarm obsolete.  Not so.)  Then we also have to add the  five minutes it took me to find all the remotes I needed to get the Wii Fit fired up.    By 5:45 I started the body test.  Which is when I realized that doing something like the Wii Fit Plus in the early hours of the morning, before the brain has plugged in to the rest of the body, was a big mistake.  See, the Body test doesn't just score on your balance.  No, those games also include brain activity.  Today I was supposed to look at a list of several numbers and bend my knees when the largest number was in the middle.  And then the Wii covered up some of the numbers. Oh, and I get marked down if my balance wavers.

Okay, fully conscious and after three cups of coffee, I'm barely able to bend my knees, keep my balance, and recognize random numbers.  At 5:45 AM, still in my jammies, and already running behind, I was doomed.    I'm fairly certain I slipped off the Wii board at one point.

Wii is a gentle trainer, however.  "The memory balance game isn't exactly your cup of tea, is it?"

All I could think is that now I wanted a cup of tea.  Or some strong coffee.  Or just a caffeine IV.

After the Body Test, the Wii gives you your body's actual age.  I always look forward to this, because the last time I did it, I was 32, a full ten years younger than my actual age. 

Lights, camera...

52.

I'd aged 20 years in the span of three days.

I know starting a new workout routine is tough, but really, I aged 20 full years?  Hey, I'd even lost 8 ounces!  come on Wii! 

I'm going back to Gold's this afternoon.  At least there I don't randomly age a decade while I'm on the treadmill.

Will I try Wii-ing in the early morning?  Probably.  At least after the emotional destruction that was the Body test, I managed a decent 30 minutes which was actually 40.  I started out the day feeling a bit better about myself.  Who knows?  Maybe I even lost another shoe size!

It Can Only Happen to Sarah!: I finally go down a size...but not where I expecte...

It Can Only Happen to Sarah!: I finally go down a size...but not where I expecte...: "Good afternoon! Whew! This Monday is getting away from me big time! My day job is really getting in the way of my observations of my own ..."

I finally go down a size...but not where I expected!

Good afternoon!

Whew!  This Monday is getting away from me big time!  My day job is really getting in the way of my observations of my own boondoggle of a life.  If I didn't love paying my bills and keeping my mortgage on my house up to date, I'd quit and blog all day!

Okay, so after these many weeks of working out under the watchful..I can't use the word NAGGING...eye of dear Dee, I am pleased to say that yes, I've lost about five pounds.  Whoop de do.  But over the weekend, someone far more exciting happened!  I dropped a size!

Unfortunately, it was a shoe size.

Seriously...this is where I'm losing weight?  My feet?

I was sort of hoping maybe gut, butt, or face...but my feet?  Who even looks at my feet?  10 months out of the year it's too cold to wear anything but fully enclosed shoes.  Who looks at a woman and says, "Oh she's really pretty, except for her fat feet!"

But no, after all these weeks of working out and actually watching what I eat a bit, I lost a size on my feet.

I discovered this by accident.  See, I've had problems with my feet for years.  Going back to high school, when I was a waitress and my ankles swelled after a long shift.  College, the swelling got worse, so I got arch supports to relieve the strain on my feet.  Apparently my arches had fallen.  I should have seen then that gravity was not going to be kind to me.

After college and deep into married mom life, I developed a cute combination of heal spurs/plantar faciatis.  This made walking really painful.  Again, more medical appliances crammed into my shoes.  I suppose it shouldn't have been much of a surprise when I went from an 8 to an 8.5. 

Oh, and then there's the fun little fact that my feet are two different sizes.  My left foot, since forever, is half a size smaller than my right.  Which means every shoe I get is so large on my left foot that my foot slides around, causing more stress and more pain.

In the last year, my left foot has given up the fight and now swells up to a half a size larger than my right.

Yes, it's fun being me.

Well, since I've been having far more foot pain than normal in the last few weeks, I decided to break down and spend some serious buckage on new shoes.  Not fancy shoes.  Just solid shoes that would cradle my poor, damaged, Tootsies.  I'm not a person who shops certain labels.  I look for price.  I'm a bargain hunter.  I'll wear any crap shoe as long as the price is right.  Which is probably why I was limping around the Johnson Creek outlet mall on Saturday.

I love Merell shoes, and my favorite pair is my bright pink mules.  That's first pair I had to replace since mine were broken down and made my feet smell really really bad.  I tried on the 8.5.  It's a size I've worn since Peaches was born.  It seemed a tiny bit loose, so I dug out an 8.  Sure enough, the 8 fit light a glove.  My feet were happy! 

Well, my blue suede Merells were also getting nasty, so I looked around for something a bit more wintry.  I found a lovely pair of leather mules lined with fur.  And blue suede!  (Peaches informed me it was a weird color blue, so I had to go with the black, non suede shoes.)  Again, size 8 felt like a second skin.

Okay, that's fine for those bulky hiking type shoes.  But at the Nike outlet, where I searched for an inexpensive pair of work out shoes, I was certain I'd be getting an 8.5  Nike's are always snug on me, so I didn't even both looking for anything smaller than an 8.5

Until I tried a pair on.

Egads...weeks and weeks of working out actually worked!  I HAVE SKINNY FEET!

Apparently, I now need "Fat shoes" and "skinny shoes."

So, I guess I'm just losing weight from the ground up.  Given the rate of sag the rest of my body has, I figure weight loss and fat sag will meet in the middle...somewhere around my rear, say, mid January.

So I've got that to look forward to.

If Wii Fit says I'm 32, who am I to quibble?

Good morning!

So yesterday I was going to go to Gold's.  Really, I was.  Honest.  (I can hear Dee grinding her teeth. Now that she works there, I know she's looking for me....LOL!)  But I got home and realized that it was the first time in ages the family was going to eat dinner in the same building.  (Note, not at the table or at the same time, that would be asking too much.)  So I decided instead of going to Gold's, I'd make a nice spaghetti supper and do the Wii Fit.

We got the Wii back at Christmas when I was going to cancel my Gold's membership  (Little did I realize that those 24 month contracts are IRON CLAD and only death or dismemberment will get me out of it.)  and I figured, hey, I have a treadmill and now the Wii...I don't need a gym!

I was very faithful on Wii fit for a couple months.  Every night. 30 minutes.  And then the Winter Olympics came on and face it...watching ACTUAL ski jumping is easier than doing that ski jumping balance game on Wii Fit.

So then it was a long time before I got back on.  Now, the problem with not doing Wii Fit on a regular basis is that Wii Fit REMEMBERS.  Wii Fit will gently tell you "Sarah, it's been 200 days" since you last worked out on Wii Fit."  Yeah, well, I did one work out, back in July I think, and didn't like the scolding.  So the Wii fit went back under the coffee table for 112 days.  How do I know it was that long?

Because I got back on the Wii fit yesterday and that's what it told me.  "Sarah, it's been 112 days since you last worked out on Wii Fit."  I tried to explain water aerobics and Gold's, but Wii Fit doesn't care.

I did the body test before my little work out because, well, I don't mind the body test.  I have relatively decent balance, and while I'm over weight and my body fat percentage would pass a math test in most high schools, I do okay with the body test. 

Except for the actual age thing.

You know that one...that's where the Wii Fit slams this big number on your Mii  (that's what you call your you in Wii Fit.  You get to build yourself on the screen, and then you make your Mii do all the games.)  and this is your "real age."  It's based on your body test, weight, fat content, that sort of thing.  I generally test older than I am, or near my age.

Not yesterday.

Yesterday Wii Fit said I was 32.  And then it said, "You're in pretty good shape."

NO ONE has said that about me since 1999.  I'm in pretty good shape!  See?  The Wii Fit said so!  The Wii Fit said I'm 32! 

Who am I to quibble?

The Wii Fit:  The nice personal trainer!

Gold's might want to take note.  Instead of putting posters of impossibly fit people smiling in the middle of an aerobics-punch-the-air-while-you're-riding-a-bike class, maybe you should put up happy notes like "Hey, you're actually 10 years younger than your age.  You're in pretty good shape.  You didn't fall off the board thingy that's an inch off the ground, so your balance is okay."

It's called positive re enforcement.  And I believe in it!

A story from my Childhood: Fartloaf Sandwiches.

Good morning my friends!

Thinking yesterday about my drive from New Ulm to Milwaukee made me nostalgic and every time I get nostalgic I think of the many family dinners we had growing up...and that wipes the nostalgia right out of my head.

So sit back my friends, and enjoy this little tale I recently shared with my Sunday School class.  They liked it and I hope you do, too.

My mother is not a good cook.  To be fair, her mother before her was not a good cook.  It wasn't a lack of talent, for I can recall meals at my grandmother's home that were tasty, and I know my mother can whip up a fairy decent lasagna when called upon.  And, to be very fair to my mother's side of the family, my paternal grandmother did not enjoy cooking, and therefore did not do it terribly often.  She preferred going out to dinner, a recessive trait I've inherited.  No, the women in my family were not bad cooks because they had no talent.  They were bad cooks because they just didn't care about cooking all that much. 

Case in point, my mother's meatloaf.  There are many jokes about meatloaf, but when it comes down to it, there's a reason everyone knows about meatloaf.  It's because, even the lamest cook can make a meatloaf that people will enjoy.  I do.  It's one of the few things my kids eat that I make.  My mother's meatloaf was, when first out of the oven, a delight.  It was hot, bubbly, just crusty enough on the outside and sweet from the ketchup glaze. 

When it cooled off, however, it became something else entirely.  My brother has some very colorful names for it, but I like to call it FARTLOAF.

Yes, when my mother's meatloaf cooled, it smelled like farts.  I'm not sure why.  Perhaps it was the green peppers she stuck in there  "for color."  (Is there anyone out there who's on the fence about eating meatloaf and then sees a touch of green and says, "Yes, that is the loaf of meat I'm going to eat!"  No, I didn't think so.)  I'm not a scientist, I cannot say what happened chemically speaking during the cooling process.

Since eating farts is not appetizing, there were always leftovers of the Loaf of Fart.  Which was perfect for my mother, who used said fartful meat for lunches the following day.

I'll give you a moment to wrap your head around the image of an inch thick slab of cold meatloaf nestled on two pieces of whole wheat bread.  And not the soft, mouth friendly whole wheat we have today, no, no;  the twigs and bark type of whole wheat that crumbled in your hands.  Now, put that sandwich in a fourth grader's lunch.

A meatloaf sandwich in a child's lunch?  Why ever would you do that, Dear?

So you can see why I , the fourth grader, threw those chunky, crumbly, fart tasting sandwiches away.  See, the worst crime you could commit in my family back then, besides lying, was throwing away food.  It was the 70's, we were the lower lower lower middle class, and wasting food was wrong.  Also, we lived under the iron clad rule that you had to eat your main course before dessert.  Generally this rule was moot since my mother, on an eternal quest to get my father to lose weight, rarely provided a dessert of any kind. 

It's completely logical, then, that I would have to dispose of the the sandwich if for no other reason than I wanted to eat whatever "dessert" sort of thing was in my lunch.  (Generally a home made marshmallow rice cereal treat with as little marshmallow as possible.  It really was like eating mildly sticky cereal.)  And I had  a sweet set up.  I couldn't toss it at school, no.  You can't throw out food at a parochial school...that's sinful.  But, on the walk home there was a vacant house.  And in front of that vacant house there was a ditch and in that ditch was a culvert.  And in that culvert were the remains of about six months' worth of my sandwiches.

Yep, it was fool proof.  I walked home alone, I ditched whatever lunch remains I had, and I moved on.  Given how perfect this was, I still scratch my head over the rest of this story.

One day, like any other, I had a fartloaf and wheat sandwich to dispose of.  Why I didn't go straight home from school that day, and send the sandwich to the culvert, I will never know, but on that day I threw the sandwich away at school and a classmate, I'd like to use her real name because it's one of those names you never forget, but let's call her Dora Donaldson, saw me and instantly told the teacher.

Let me tell you about Dora Donaldson.  Ours was a tiny school and there were only three girls in my class.  Dora, Kayla, the super cool girl who had horses, and me.  We were friends because there simply was no one else.  But Dora was one of those girls the teachers all like, but the kids can't stand because they constantly wreck whatever game you're playing at recess with things like, "Well, it just doesn't make any sense.  I'm left handed, so if I get a hit in softball, I should run to the left."  (No worries, Dora wasn't any good at sports, so the actuality of her getting a hit was non existent.)

Dora had lunch issues of her own.  She hated all things fruit.  But Dora was clever.  She would tell Teacher she was going to eat her fruit on the playground at lunch recess.  Then she'd go out, put the fruit in her special spot  (35 years later, I bet I can go to that playground and there will be a grove of apple trees there.) and "forget it."

Yeah, so Dora tattled.  That meant a note from the Teacher, who made me gather up as many of the pieces of the sandwich  (which had all but disintegrated in the garbage can by this point.) and put them back in my lunch box  (Emergency! with the Thermos!)  I had to take note and lunch home.

Now, a normal child with a normal childhood would have tossed the note.  Not me.  I wasn't living a normal childhood.  See, my DAD was the OTHER teacher in this two room school.  So I was smart enough to know that my teacher and he had conversations, and undoubtedly, the subject of a note would show up.  So I couldn't throw out the note.  I had to come up with a plan.

And I still had to ditch the sandwich. 

Hey, rule number one in the house:  Don't eat dessert before your main meal.  Since dessert was long digested, I had to do something with the chunks of farty wheaty goodness in my lunchbox. So, passing by my favorite culvert, I dumped the sandwich and cooked up a foolproof plan.

I got in trouble because Dora Donaldson lied.

Yep, that and some real tears was going to get me out of this.  Never mind that there were countless witnesses to me picking the sandwich out of the trash.  This was the gold star story that was going to save me from a week of no TV. (No Emergency?  No Johnny and Roy? Horrors!)

I'm not going to bore you with the court room drama, or lack thereof, that followed.  My parents were fooled by this story for about six seconds, which is how long it took my father to ask where the sandwich was now.  Knowing I couldn't tell the truth, I said, "I ate it."


Yeah, I'm not what you'd call a criminal mastermind.

Well, I didn't lose a week of TV.  No, I lost a month of desserts.  (Sort of like getting Al Capone on tax evasion.  Without the evidence, they couldn't really prove I'd thrown out the sandwich.  So, they nailed me for eating dessert before the main meal.)  The worst of it was my darling Aunt Carol  (her real name) was coming for a long weekend.  Aunt Carol, unlike my mother, was a BRILLIANT cook, and her speciallty was dessert.  So, in the final review, it was a painful punishment.

Did that stop me from throwing sandwiches in the culvert?  Nope. 

Know what did?  Two things:

1)  Shortly after this, someone actually bought the vacant house. Food dumping became trespassing and littering pretty quickly.

2)  We moved.  My walk to school got shorter, and there was no place to hide food.  I wound up having to actually eat it.

I shared this story with my parents a year ago, at Thanksgiving.  (Now you understand why I try to avoid Thanksgiving?)  I figured that, at age 42, I was safe from further punishment.  Besides, confession is good for the soul.

Willie Nelson would not love the road if he had trips like this!

Good afternoon all!

It's been sort of a lousy weekend.  The Packers lost today, which was my last hope for something cheerful.  My uncle passed away early this week after a long illness and the funeral was Friday in a town 6 hours from home.  Well, when normal people drive it, it's six hours.

See, on the trip back from the funeral, since Hubby had a family thing to attend in his hometown halfway between the funeral and where we live, I rode up with him on Thursday night. The funeral was late Friday afternoon, so by 6 pm he was ready to go, and I was to ride with my parents and my brother.  That was my big mistake. 

Let me create a mental image.  Ever hear of the movie "National Lampoon's Family Vacation?"  Yeah, that's our family.  Right down the the dog pee sandwiches.  The four of us have done very well in radio contests with disaster stories from our family vacations.

So riding home, late at night, with my parents and my brother, I knew was going to be...interesting.  At best.

It started out okay.  Dad and Bro driving the rental  (For the record, everyone of us has cars bigger than this rental.)  Mom and I folded up like origami in the back seat.  We were making good time because Bro was driving and Bro thinks of speed limits more as general suggestions for the weak. 

I should mention two things:

1) My mother has restless leg syndrome and is lactose intolerant.

2)  I'd been in pumps for 9 hours, and my already lousy feet went from numb to searingly painful pretty quickly.

Our first stop, 150 miles into the trip, (And 150 minutes, according to bro) got us past the tedious, two lane highway, section of the trip.  It was all interstate from here!  And, since we were leaving Minnesota, a lovely state, but one I've now dubbed "Land of 10,000 funky smells" I was jazzed.  Looking at the clock and working out the math, I figured we'd be home by midnight. 

Then my uncle, not the one who passed away, but the one who lives an hour east of the Wisconsin boarder, called my dad and invited him, since we were going that way, over for cake and soda.  Bro and I groaned because 1) This would cut into the fantastic time we were making  (The New Ulm, MN to Milwaukee, WI run is something college kids in New Ulm challenge each other to generation after generation.  IT was a matter of pride to beat the standing record.  As old people, we needed this, no matter how unofficial it would be.  We'd know we broke the record.)  and 2)  We were hungry and cake and soda was not going to do it.

We took a vote, three normal people and the lactose intolerant one, and we decided to hit the McDonald's in La Crosse, easy on/easy off exit.  Three of us knew these exits very, very well.

Which is why it was so ridiculous that we missed it. 

So we went two up, to Onalaska.  But the Mc D's in Onalaska isn't on the freeway.  So we had to make a quick change of plans. 

Culvers!

Ahhhhh, Culvers.  That blessed blue glow promising butter burgers and frozen custard.  (For those of you not familiar with Culvers, I feel very sorry for you.)  We all voted for that.

The thing about Culvers is, however, that they make everything when you order it.  So there's a wait.  And, since there were no cup holders in the rental  (for the record, everyone in this trip has cars that have no less that six cup holders.)  we had to eat in the restaurant.

We ate, but as we did so, Mother announced that it wasn't just dairy that gave her gas attacks...no, it was all restaurant food.  Oh, and she couldn't find her gas pills.

Eat up everyone!

Forty minutes later, our eta for home now closer to 1 AM, we get back in the car.  Another vote is taken on the cake and soda offer and since the parents get two votes (How did that happen?)  we stopped. 

"Half an hour"  my mother swears.  "We'll eat some cake and go in half an hour."

Well, my aunt, bless her, made brownies for our visit.  Warm brownies and ice cream!  Yum!

My mother ate a plate baked goods.  She weighs nine pounds and since she ate a plateful of baked goods, I gained six pounds. 

And then, as we were thanking my aunt and uncle...the subject of politics came up. 

CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, my parents and my relatives AGREE on all things political.  Seriously.  What this debate was about, I couldn't tell you.  It was four adults sitting at a table eating dessert and howling about the general state of affairs. 

Tick, tick, tick...

At 11 PM we made our way out of the house.  Mother, of course, stayed behind to use the gas room.  Uncle, who is a planter guy, wanted to show us his moon flowers.  Bro and I were as polite as we could be, but come on, we were five hours into what should have been a six hour trip, we still had a solid 2 hours and more to go, and it was already 11 PM.

But, flowers viewed, dessert eaten, gas released, we were back on the road. 

Well, for another 45 minutes.

At this point, Mother and I, both with legs and feet roiling in pain, were trying to sit face to face in the back seat of the rental, with our legs on the seat of the rental.  Since Mother is tiny, this worked, except getting the two of us out of the car took the skill of acrobatic conjoined twins.  (Hey, I watch a lot of Health Channel, I've seen the coordination it takes to move around.  I do not have that sort of coordination and Mother certainly doesn't.)

Rental cars...you think you hate them now, wait 'til you drive one!

At this point in the trip we stopped because my father is the master of the tiny details.  He knew that if he gassed up at the Kwik Trip in Mauston, he would have exactly the right amount of gas in the rental when he turned it in.  I should note here that had we been driving any one of our FOUR OWNED CARS, this fact would not have mattered.

So, Mother and I unfolded out of the car.  I used the ladies room, sharing a hand washing moment with a Chris-Farley-in-a-dress-look-alike. Since the universe is balanced, of course the mad she was with was a tiny, feminine looking fellow.  Hey, it was well after midnight at this point.

I wanted coffee.  But I didn't want hot coffee. Why not?

1)  It was roughly 1100 degrees in the car.

2) NO CUP HOLDERS IN THE RENTAL.

So I went to the "iced coffee" dispenser.  I had an insulated cup, but that was okay, I told the clerk it was iced coffee.  It's Kwik Trip, they really don't care what you put in the cup.

We got ourselves folded back into the car for the last two, yep you read that right, two hours of the trip.  I took a sip of blessed iced coffee.

It wasn't iced.

It wasn't even cold.

It was WARM! 

Not hot, but warm.  Warm and sticky and thick and gross.

I've never had a mental breakdown, but I think I know what the warning signs are now.

Somewhere in the woods of I-94, as we approached the Wisconsin Dells, I did something I never do. 

I threw out food. 

I opened my window, took the lid off the cup, and let the sticky coffee fly.

Have I mentioned I've never been really good with things like Physics?

While most of the coffee did fly into the semi behind us  (I started yelling, I've just hit a Teamster....DRIVE!)  a goodly portion stayed on my arm.

Great.  Now I'm sticky.

Mother is a problem solver.  She got a bottle of warm water  (Because  again, it's about 1100 degrees in the car.)  and said, "Rinse with this."

Then we hit a bump and the water splashed all over me, except on my arm.

Great, now I'm wet and sticky.

At this point, we are laughing so hard, it's hard to breath.  Mother then announces to the entire car, that she has a feminine wipe in her purse and that will clean me up.

That's when Bro turns on the radio.  Since my father avoids all things rock and roll, the radio is turned to his favorite AM station.  Do you know what they play on AM stations in the wee hours?

Radio plays.

Radio plays from the 40's.  I'm sitting there, wet and sticky, laughing my face off, twisted in some weird seating position they only picture in love making books from other cultures, and I'm listening to a radio play.

Well, I don't like being sticky, so I accepted my mother's feminine wipe.  Which made the volume of the radio play soar.  (Apparently Bro is not comfortable enough with his manliness to listen to a MAssengill ad in the car.)  I wiped myself down.  Now, I'm not sticky.  I'm still wet, but at least I smell like flowers.

We rolled into Waukesha at 2 AM, 8 hours after we'd left New Ulm.  My kids waited up for me.  Awwww....Okay, Skippy doesn't go to bed on Friday nights, so that doesn't count.  But Peaches waited up for me which was nice.

My parents returned the rental, so they didn't get home until after 3.  I should note that had we driven one of our own cars, with the bigger back seat, the cup holders, and no rental rules worries, they would have been in bed almost an hour earlier.

I'm just sayin'.

So, you may ask, am I afraid my parents will be offended that I'm telling you all this?  Nope, I'm not. Know why?

Because somewhere on this death march into darkness, my mother said to me, "Sarah, your best writing is when you just tell it like it is."

So, here's to you, Mom!

Crossing the line with other people's shoes.

Good morning!

There is an old adage that says, "There is a fine line between love and hate."  I know this line all too well.

It is well documented how I feel about shoes. However, there is a dark side to my love of footwear.  Other people's shoes.  More specifically, other people's shoes lying around my house.

Moms know exactly what I mean about this.  There are four people living in my house.  Since forever, there have only ever been four people living in my house.  Yet, on any given day, there are no less that seven pairs of shoes strewn about the living room, looking like passed out revelers after a three day drunk.  Sideways, askew, and generally not even close to their mates, these shoes clutter up the one room I care about.  It's as if the Rockettes did a routine in my living room wearing sports shoes.

And don't even get me started on the smell.  Hey, I have stinky sports shoes, too.  Which is why I put my shoes in my room, or, on very rare occasions, in the front hallway where they stand, side by side, ready for a quick escape.  But the other three people who live in my house kick off their shoes with a wild sense of abandon. 

 

But that's not the worst.  The real kicker...get it, kicker, hah...is that then these loose shoed people have the AUDACITY to wander around the house in the morning, asking ME where THEIR SHOES ARE!

This has gone on since the day Skippy put on his first pair of Brown Shoes.  I've been tripping over shoes for almost 17 years.  There were times, many of them, when I tried to clean up this crime by simply hiding the shoes.  Hey, it's fair, right?  You leave them in my room, I'm going to hide them.

My dear friend, Marie, informed me that that was cruel.  So I stopped.

I 'll be honest, I'm not as nice as Marie.  I still want to hide shoes.  Especially since, now that the children are teens, they blame me for hiding their shoes anyway.  So I get the blame, but not the fun.

Seriously, this is an actual conversation I had with Skippy last week.  Bear in mind, this conversation was held at 6:45 AM, when everyone is late for everything  (picture, if you will, the morning scenes from ABC's "The Middle."  Yep, that's us.)  and I am at that time of day when I have to decide if I have enough time for a shower before work or not.

Skippy:  Where are my shoes?

Sarah:  There are  three pairs of your shoes in the living room.

Skippy:  None of them is my black pair.

Sarah:  Well, I don't know...I don't touch your shoes.  They are where you left them.

Skippy:  No, because then I'd know where they are.  So where did you put my shoes?

Sarah:  I didn't touch them.  Have you looked in the living room?

Skippy: Yes, like four times.  And I'm late, so if I'm late for school it's your fault.

Sarah:  So wear one of the other three pairs.

Skippy:  I need to wear my black shoes.

Sarah:  (Dropping everything to search for the shoes.)  Here they are, under the blanket you threw on the floor last night when you went to bed.

Skippy:  You put them there.

Sarah:  I don't have that kind of time or energy in my day.

Skippy:  Whatever.

Mom:  You wouldn't be in this predicament if you'd keep your shoes in your room.

Skippy:  (unintelligible muttering as he slams the front door.)

Hubby:  Have you seen my black work shoes?

Friends, I've tried designating a spot in the front hall for shoes.  I even put a basket by the front door for a while...that seems to work for a lot of people.  But no, my family would rather go throw Shoe Drama Theater on a daily basis than actually put their shoes in one spot.  I wouldn't even care if that spot was dead in the middle of the livingroom.  At least there'd be some vague sense of thought in that. 



 I have a tendency to walk through the house late at night or in the early mornings, either ending my day or starting it, in the dark.  I'm sort of like a bat, I can navigate easily.  However, I cannot count the times I've tripped over a shoe and then fallen.  And now that we have a cat, trying to avoid stepping on the cat while not tripping over shoes has tested whatever acrobatic talent I have.  (Which, if you read this blog, you know I don't have.)

There's fine line between love and hate.  And I know I'm supposed to love the shoe flinger, and hate the shoe flinging instead, but honestly, this is a test of my patience.  No, I won't revert again to hiding shoes.  When I finally do snap, I'll do something big...big and noisy and probably something that involves fire.

So that's something to look forward to  I guess.



This level of organization and peace in the Middle East.
Two things that aren't going to happen.



Non verbal water Aerobics for the visually impaired...

Good morning!

Okay, Dee is waiting impatiently for this blog.  Which means, as most of you know, this one's all about Sarah in the water!  Buckle up my friends, this one's a wild one.

Last night Dee, Peaches and I hit Gold's for their Sunday night "Zumba Water Aerobics."  Now, water aerobics I'm familiar with. And I've heard people talk about Zumba, a nifty new aerobics class set to Latin music.  But the two together?  That sounded like too much fun for me.

I took Peaches along because she's been interested in taking a water aerobics class for a while, and since the Monday and Wednesday classes fall while she's at cheer practice, this Sunday was her opportunity.  Besides, being a ZUMBA class, it was going to be cool, full of younger folks, men and women. 

Yeah, thinking that was my FIRST mistake.

Apparently I've made a big enough splash  (pun intended) at water aerobics for some of the regulars to recognize me.  (Which means my "Q" rating is as least as high as "The Situation's" so where's my invitation to Dancing with the Stars?)  After some pleasant chit chat, I settled into the back lane with Peaches and we waited for Dee to show up.

Yeah, I was sort of hoping she'd bail so I could razz her.  But I should know better. Dee loves Gold's.  (So much so, she actually got a job there, and she starts today!  YAY DEE!)  Dee was NOT going to miss an opportunity to work out.

Now, let's remember, Sarah does NOT wear her glasses into the pool, which means her vision and her hearing are compromised.  That said, I'm moderately positive that the instructor for this class was the gorgeous Sofia Veragara from "Modern Family."  I couldn't make out her face, but if it matched the rest of her...WHY WEREN'T THERE ANY MEN IN THIS CLASS?



You will learn the Zumba!

 Seriously, guys?  What is up with that? What, you're too much of a man to get into the pool and do some moves in the water while ogling the instructor?  Did I miss a memo?  Are men no longer interested in staring at hot women?

Aside from her beauty, our instructor shared something else with the lovely Ms. Veragara...a very thick accent.

Now normally that would be a problem, since I'm already hearing impaired, what with no wearing my glasses.  HOWEVER, since the Latin music is SO LOUD, the need for verbal cues is minimal.  Mostly, in Zumba, you stare at the instructor and when she claps loudly, you change direction, or change what you're doing.

Works for me.  Especially since the few times she explained things to us verbally, I mostly heard this:

Gurble bluzz bummel gleek.....okay?  You see, Okay?

Sure, I nodded.  I'll see.  Then I'll get it and I'll not only be good at Zumba in the water, I'll be super sexy and fit...at least in the pool.

The warm ups were good.  Pretty traditional stuff, really.  (Aren't I the water aerobics expert?)  And then she got us into the more difficult moves.  Zumba is pretty much regular water aerobics on some kind of fast forward.  And, unfortunately for the instructor, the laws of motion are still in place.   A woman the size of a pick up truck cannot spin in shoulder deep water with any sort of speed. Beauty on the deck was spinning and lunging and kicking and hip thrusting with grace, speed, and talent. 

The rest of us were splashing in the pool.

I kept and eye on Peaches (even though she specifically told me to not look at her.) and she was just fine.  I, on the other hand, realized that unless I skipped every third move, I was going to be so far behind I would have to stay after class to complete.

Remedial Zumba anyone?

Now this class was completely up Dee's ally.  I'm sworn to secrecy, but let's just say, Dee has a dance back ground.  And Peaches is a cheerleader/dancer.  So I'm the one in the middle, floundering like drowning horse.

I did like the marching steps.  Those were fun.  I was in marching band. I can march!

But the swinging hips?  Swirling my hips suggestively?  To the music?

Um, my daughter is four feet away...is this really appropriate?

I do tend to focus on music in such situations.  I figure if I can connect with the song, I'll do better.  Well, Zumba, being a Latin thing, has music that's in...well not Latin because I took enough Latin in school to know that.  But the only Spanish I have is what I accumulated from working with my cleaning crew over the years and of course, watching Spanish soap operas.  (Yes, I do my own subtitles.  But I hear enough to get the gist.)  So, listening to the music as I'm marching and spinning and swiveling my hips to the music, I realized that the lyrics to one song was, "I want a Frito, I want a Frito, I want a Frito, yes, yes I do!"

And then, predictably, I wanted a Frito.

To my credit, I only ran into Dee a couple of times, and I managed to not crash into Peaches at all.  I thought I was pretty impressive in the hip thrust department, although when I tried to show Hubby and Skippy what I'd learned in class, they were both, what's the word...grossed out.  (Apparently I'm not as attractive doing the hip thrusts out of the water as I am in the water.)

Am I going back?  You betcha!  I'm going to break my long standing rule of staying on the couch from noon on Sunday until they drag me to bed after "Mad Men."  I'm going to go to Zumba water aerobics.  I'm going to spin in the water in time with the music!  I'm going to thrust my hips in such a way that no one will be grossed out! 

I'm going to RULE!

But first, I should probably either learn Spanish or wear my glasses to class.

60 minutes that can make or break a day.

Good afternoon!

First of all, let me just say that I went to "Wicked" and I LOVED IT.  Dinner was great, Marie picked an awesome little Italian place.  The seats were great, the musical was great, and, (And I know you're all dying to know about this) my new shoes got me through the evening in a stylish and comfortable manner.  I may ever keep these, instead of, you know, returning them today.  (Wait, who does that????)

Now, on to our topic at hand.  The first sixty minutes of your day can pretty much define how you're going to view the rest of the day.  I've had some wild 60 minutes, but nothing quite like this.

First off, we didn't get home until almost 1 am.  On a school night, that's a big deal.  Skippy, theoretically, went to bed at 11:30, but I have my doubts.

Everything starts with getting Skippy out of bed.  He tells us he wants to be up at 5:20 so that he has time for a 40 minute shower, a ten minute beauty regimen, another 10 minutes of staring at a wall in his room, 45 seconds of eating half the breakfast I make him, and 15 seconds of storming out of the house and slamming the front door in time to pick up his buddy and get to school in time for an hour of "my parents stink" with his friends.

That would be fine, if he'd get up at 5:20 and get in the shower.  Then Hubby would get in about 6 and I'd have the shower by 6:20, which gives me enough time to shower, pretty up, get Peaches out of bed, make her breakfast, and lunch, and maybe a bit of breakfast for myself.

Here's how this really goes:  At 5:20, Hubby makes the first of four trips he's going to make down to Skippy's room to roust the dead.  By 6:00 there's a lot of shouting "GET UP!", which works as an alarm clock for me.  I hit the mental snooze because, as we all know now, it's going to be at least another 15 minutes before Skippy actually staggers upstairs for a shower.

(Hubby has learned.  He now showers BEFORE he begins the resurrection drama.) 

Once I roll out about 6:15, make Skippy some breakfast.  (Don't ask...I'm a believer in the adage, 'Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.'  I'm not so much a believer in the food pyramid as a rule.)  Generally by 6:25 he's storming through the kitchen to his room to stare at the wall.  He ignores the food, but that's okay because I know he'll get to those delicious sliced apples and pizza rolls.  (I told you not to ask.)  This morning Skippy was running extra late, and didn't get his wall staring time in, so he ate one, exactly one, pizza roll for breakfast.

The good news is, he didn't forget to slam the front door.

Hubby is out the door next, he packs his own lunch and manages a good balanced breakfast at Starbucks.  This morning, however, we were out of bread.  (I'm one of those people who always has plenty of wine, but toilet paper and bread tend to run out.)  I scrambled to the fridge before he did, grabbing the last hamburger bun in the house for Peaches' lunch.   SCORE for me! 

We're calling it "Chicken tartar"and you're going to love it in your lunch!



By now it's 6:45 and I have a choice to make.  I can take a quick shower, or I can just shape my hair with half a can of hair spray.  Since it's chilly in the bathroom  (we keep the windows open until the first snow flies) I opt for just slipping out of jammies and into a skull cap of hair spray.



I pop two toaster waffles into the toaster oven and head into Peaches' room to get her up.  Of course, on the way, I trip over the big box of Partylite candles that got delivered yesterday while I was off being a Theater person.  Even the cat is laughing at me at this point.  I get Peaches up, grab a waffle and get into the car.  I have the car started and pulled out of the driveway when I realize I don't have the checkbook.  This is vital for my day because, well, I have to write out some checks for some bills and stuff that are due today and they need to get in the mail.  (What, like you don't wait until the LAST POSSIBLE DAY to pay the cable bill?)

Back into the driveway and I run into the house.  What ensues is four minutes of frantic running around looking for the checkbook.  The problem is always the same:  If I tidy up, things go one way.  If Hubby does it, things go another.  I had to first remember who tidied last.

Finally, checkbook in hand I am on my way to work!  Since I like to be there by 7:30, I have given myself 8 minutes to get there.  Whoo hoo!

And then my phone rings.  I'm 1 mile into my 1.25 mile drive to work.  Apparently, when we picked her up for the play yesterday, she deposited her backpack into the trunk of the car.  And never got it out. 

So, back to the house, back into the driveway, and back into the house I go.

By the time I get to work, I've already put in half a days' worth of steps, I'm exhausted, and I've worked off the waffle I ate for breakfast. 

Oh, and there are no less than four emails from Bossman regarding things that absolutely must be done by the end of the week.  Since this is Friday, I guess I'll be running around all day.