Entries from November 1, 2008 - December 1, 2008
I am not too old for the push ups. Inspired by working my way through the The Hundred Push Up Challenge I ordered Hip Hop Abs. I did half of the intro secession the first time. I was sore for a few days but otherwise fine.
A week later, I got to the DVD again and did the whole 30 minutes at half speed. I was content with that pace. This body is never going to move like those dancers on the screen and I am so okay with that.
I pulled my back! It was twitchy, which is a warning that if I am not very careful, my back will proceed to go out. The last time that happened was about 5 years ago. A week on the couch, heat pads and muscle relaxers (which I happen to like) later I was up and moving very slowing.
No more push up for the rest of the week. I was supposed to help hang Christmas decorations at church this past weekend and canceled that commitment. Backs are tricky and demanding when they are being twitchy. Sigh.
Therefore, Week 5 next week and Lord willing, Week 6 after that and I will be done!
I am going to try to hippity hop my abs again once I have completed the Challenge and added my name to the finishers list.
At half speed, doing just half the tape at a time until this back of mine can catch up with the rest of me. Aging is not for the faint of heart.
Anyway, 86 push ups for today.
How are you doing this fine day?
It is the weekend before Thanksgiving and I am too busy to think…so…
In the interest of full disclosure... I was a natural blonde at one time. My hairdresser says I could be again if I wanted to be.
What did the blond say when he opened the Cheerio box?
Oh look…donut seeds.
A blond, a brunette and a red head were looking at a magic mirror. If you spoke the truth the mirror would grant you one wish. However…If you spoke a lie, you disappeared.
The brunette when first. “I think I am smart,” she said and the mirror granted her a wish.
Encouraged the red head went second. “I think I am smarter than the brunette” Poof she disappeared.
A little daunted the blond decided to comment on her looks instead of her brains. She said,” I think”. Poof
Do you have a very clean joke you would like to share?
Sunday I am sitting in the worship serve at church and I realize I am angry. Really angry! There is no rational reason for this anger. The teens are listening, the pastor is not going late (that would not be as good reason to be angry by the way), no one is singing off key and no small child is kicking my chair.
My neck is tensing. When am I going to remember to carry Ben-Gay along with lipstick in my purse? My mind is racing and my emotions only need a red flag to set them loose. I have teens; someone is going to wave that flag at me…!
The service ends. With one look at me, my husband gets that” I do not know what happened but it was not my fault look” I quickly readjust my face, this is public you know. Instead of chatting while my men help stack chairs, I go wait out front.
Perimenapuase is an emotional “mind” field. I know it is just hormones but the anger feels real and even more difficult, it feels justified. Carbohydrates in massive quantities are needed and needed quickly! A few Dove Chocolates or a dash of black cotash will not stem this hormone surge. It is time to pull out the big guns!
Pasta…massive amounts of pasta.
We arrive home mostly unscathed by my tongue. A feat of super human self-control that will not last much longer. I dive into the freezer. Pasta calls for a good sauce and a good sauce need both meat and a long slow simmer. I prefer three hours but in this emergency, I will endure for two. There is no ground beef unfrozen. Disaster looms…but wait a bag of 128 frozen meatballs leaps off the shelf into my hands. 128 meatballs will not be enough thinks my hormone soaked brain, but it will have to do.
Into the pot, tomato paste and sauce and spices and soy souse, garlic and onion and finally the noble meatballs.
I go hid in my room except for quick pops into the kitchen to stir the sauce.
Two hours, fifteen minutes, two pounds of cooked pasta later, sanity returns.
I did share some pasta and sauce with my family…. Even a meatball or two.
Do you have a tale from the hormone front?
I have kids so I have stashes all over the house. This is for the sake of my sanity than any desire to go treasure hunting. About 15 years ago after buying yet another hammer after my husband used the last one and the hammer somehow went walk about, I bought my own personal tool kit. All the tools fit in a cool black plastic case and I have not had to go hammer hunting since. No one in my home knows of this tool kit existence. My husband has made more then a few trips to the hardware store to get another hammer. The children got older and became hammer liberators also.
I keep my sewing kit hidden also. If I don’t the thread gets tangled, the pins wander away and the needles I suspect wander after the pins. I have to find a new hiding place after a child borrows the sewing kit. There is something about how the children interact with the sewing kit that causes the pins and needles to disappear. I can’t figure out why this is, my children don’t cause the dishwasher to run and hide or the stove to overheat.
Scissors, I have scissors hidden all over the house. The problem is I can’t remember where they are secreted so I have to buy another pair no matter if the kids uncover one of the hidden ones or not.
For clear tape, I have a different plan. There is a roll in the kitchen draw next to a pair of scissors I am hiding in plain sight and then there is my secret supple. The kids discovered the secret supple so that explains why we rarely have clear tape on hand when needed.
Finally my stash of Dove Dark Chocolate Promises: 2 little pieces and life seems better than it was 5 minutes ago. Not only do I have to keep these little sanity savers hidden, I have to be moved my stash every 24 hours or so because we have some truly dedicated chocolate loves in my home. I am willing share when I am raiding my stash. Two for me, one for every child that asks nicely.
Do you have a stash?
There is a building debate in the mom blog world about if or not mom bloggers should be posting about their teens. The debate seems to focus on the early adapter moms who started blogging before their kids could read and now the kids are objecting to what they are reading being written about them.
Since I have only been blogging for about 6 months I have no dog in that fight. If I didn’t write about my kids, I would have nothing to write about. My kids get to complain about what I write to their friends whose moms don’t blog. They get sympathy; I have an unending supply of blog post material and a handy parental warning. I even heard my husband say to one of the kids “Watch it or you are going to become a blog post!”
Posting about my teens is no problem. My teens posting about me, big problem. I have a child who blogs in the old fashion sense of the word. She has an online diary read by her friends, their mothers and it seems a good half the world’s population of teens.
My daughter is a brilliant writer. Brilliance is in her genes. She is insightful, quirky and edgy. She is good with words. She can take an ordinary situation, give it a twist and delight her readers. She could be a G-rated Daily Show writer and supply her own video for each segment.
The problem is I usually only appear in her blog when she is mad at me. The extensive vocabulary she possesses get put to impressive use in letting the world know what an mean mother this child has. Who knew a teen could be so expressive with a G rated vocabulary. You would never know from reading her blog she has a father both active and interested in her life. There are siblings that appear when she is mad at them or they have done something nice for her. No other family member has reached my Attila the Mom Status.
I don’t like it.
I threatened censorship with a previous blog she had but have decided against that route with this one. Unless she starts building bombs in the basement or running numbers, than all freedom of expression becomes void.
At least her latest blog isn’t titled “Mommy Dearest”.