Not Happening

Today when I came home from Costco my neighbor was outside cleaning his boat. He is an old guy, and when he is not going to Shriner's Club meetings, or tooling around his garage he is probably drinking beer in his arm chair in the house.
When I moved in over two years ago his wife's health started deteriorating. She is bed ridden now, and the last time I saw her she looked like she would fall over dead right there.
He is a nice guy, and the kids are amused by him. He likes listening to them say the same thing over and over for ten minutes. It never goes beyond the uncomplicated adult-admiring-a-child interaction, but this time he asked Kingsley if she wanted to go inside and say hi to his wife.
She put her hand out for me to come with her, but the baby was taking a nap, so I said, "No, we have to stay here, in case George wakes up."
But the neighbor kept asking her, as if he would take her by himself. My heart started to speed up because I was definitely not going to allow this to happen, and it would be awkward when I tell him, "I'm sorry, but my three year old is not going to go into your house with you."

Luckily Kiki did not want to go without me. I don't think he is some nasty pedophile, but you can't ever be too sure. It's one of those guilty until proven innocent situations.

I went onto Megan's Law that evening to check out my neighborhood. He is not a registered sex offender, but there is an awful lot around here, 20 within a 2 mile radius, a terrible thought before going to sleep. 

This neighbor is now on my avoid list. If the next time we see him he has a bag of candy for the kids and tells them there is more inside, I'm going to pepper spray his ass. Can't be too careful especially in my neighborhood which should probably be scrubbed clean by one of those religious warriors who goes on a rampage.

Birthday Parties Make Me Want Alone Time

Hydration is the key to vitality

Yesterday we had George's birthday party. At two years old, it seems like the smarter he gets, the less he sleeps. Getting up with him twice in the night is pretty common these days, and it's surprising since he was the best sleeper for his first 18 months.
I worried the night before that I invited too many people and would have to get more food, but there was a lot of last minute cancelations, so it was just a skeleton crew of George's nearest and dearest.
Whenever I have a party I feel like I am working in a restaurant, and after a couple hours I am so tired of running around that I think about sneaking off to my room to watch TV all by myself, a smaller scale Jay Gatsby.
My little sister, Becky, always takes off mid party and goes to bed. When her husband and her had a party for the Paquio Mayweather fight, she snuck off before the first punch was exchanged and fell asleep. She didn't even say goodnight, she just disappeared, and by the time anyone noticed, she was snoring away in her room.
Yesterday, Becky tried to take a nap when the first guests started arriving. She put her baby to sleep, and figured she would take a snooze too because she didn't want to stand around and talk to people she doesn't know that well. Her husband got cornered by a family friend and was stuck giving a verbal autobiography for twenty minutes. He escaped to find her the first chance he got.
She told me, he crept into the room, and whispered in a stern voice, "You better get up and get out there!" A rally cry, to come and join him in the doldrums of people arriving and finding their places amongst the crowd and room.
When the party wound down and everyone left, I put the kids to bed and tackled the clean up. It was not so bad, and only took an hour. I had Coors Light to hydrate during all this strenuous work, so when I was all done, and should have gone to bed expecting to be woken up by George as soon as I drift off, I got a second wind, and kicked my feet on the couch, flipped open my lap top and turned on the TV to catch up with the Real Housewives of New York.
Being offline for the entire day gave me a lot of things to catch up on. Usually I stare at my phone or computer, and think, "What can I do on here that I have not done within the last 20 minutes?"
I started to enter my calories for the day on my weight loss app where I am allotted a ridiculously low amount. I have only succeeded at staying under one time, and it was because I had the flu. My beer calories, alone, put me over the limit for the day.
I was feeling so cocky about out smarting my app, and being to my goal weight earlier than the projected June 22, but I don't think I realized how strict I'd have to be to maintain a 1,000 calorie a day diet. Beer, ice cream and pancake breakfasts really fuck up my diet plan because even the smallest bit of any of those items consume half my daily allotment.

Heavy snack day. Carb loading is part of PMS

My personal time was cut short when George started crying. I had to go and crawl into bed with him. His mattress is as thick as a pillow, and makes my butt hurt, but I am stuck sleeping on it every night.
I should buy him a nice mattress for his birthday. Even though I can't party like Jay Gatsby, under my comfy duvet with a silver tray of Coors Lights, and the lively commotion on the other side of my closed door, I could sleep in a bit more comfort.
Regardless, I will take a page from my sister's book, and cut out from my personal party early next time because I am so tired today, even George's flat pancake mattress sounds nice right now.

Nice ride, birthday boy

Three Forever 21 Tank Tops

The tank tops are starting to get a bit small

Yesterday morning I was packing the kids for a night trip to Tahoe. My daughter told me, "Pack me three Forever 21 tank tops."
She started by using these tank tops as leisure wear and pajamas around the house. I'd tie the back, making a little dress. She can go through four a day because she puts on a new one with every drip of water or spill of food. She has taken over my collection, and because they only cost $1.50, I never feel like I am over indulging when I buy her one while we are at the mall.
She has even started to wear them under her school uniform, possibly for security reasons.
My packing plan was to be very efficient, and not to over pack, so I disregarded her request, and only packed one Forever 21 tank top.
Around 1 am, I shifted her over 6 inches in the bed to get a bit more space, and she barfed. Luckily it was mainly in her blankey. After I rushed her to the bathroom to clean her up, and came back to whip away the sheet and clean up the mess, she said, "I need another Forever 21 tank top."
I said, "Oh, Kingsley, I only brought you one. You have to wear the tie dye sun dress you had on during the day."
She put on the dress, and crawled back in bed.
Thirty minutes later, she barfed again, and after taking the same steps as before, I had to put her in my t-shirt I wore during the day.
When she rested her head on the pillow, we laid face to face, and I combed her hair back from her face. She whispered, "I feel better. Tomorrow I will be better."
I kissed her forehead, and thought next time, I am bringing her three Forever 21 tank tops.

Pajama tanks

Horoscope Nailed It

Captain Fry and The Iron Maiden

"My mommy has a camel's toe in her shorts!" Kiki shouted at my brother who flew into town from Salt Lake City.

He looked at me wide eyed and laughed while I shook my head in disbelief that she'd remember my comment from the weekend before.

My brother was getting ready for a last minute job interview, and was asking advice on shoe/belt/shirt/pant combinations. He came to town to say goodbye to my grandpa whose worsening health had the family worried.

Two days before my brother and I went to see my grandfather who was on hospice at his home. My uncles had a changing of the guard and I stood next to him with the heaviest heart and an absent voice.

We all tried to chat, which was torturous. I made a very unwelcome joke about seeing trails from the morphine.

I apologized, and walked away. I took a breath and said to myself, "you have to say what's important." 

I came back to him, sitting in his chair, with his swollen feet resting on a square ottoman. I knelt next to him and put my hand on his, and through a closing throat and tear blurred eyes, I told him I love him, I will miss him so much and will always think of him. He was relieved to hear what I said, and replied, "I wish I knew what to tell you," with a look of longing and sadness confirming he didn't want to go.

After awhile my brother and I left, saying we'd be back the next day. With the kids in bed we started to have beers. We kept it going on for a while, talking about our family and how fucking lucky we are, and our grandfather who we became very close with as our lives interwove through this point in his eighties. 

Around two in the morning we were outside talking. He was mid story and my bladder was bursting, so I yelled, "I'm peeing in the yard, I can't hold it any more!"

He said, "that's a great idea," and went pee in the grass too.

We were laughing so hard I nearly fell over. Matt said, "If pops saw that, he'd be laughing too."

We turned in, and then I woke up to the news that my grandpa passed away in the night. I cried like my 3 year old, loud and uncontrollably.

The next day we went to my Aunt and Uncle's house for a BBQ. It was nice to talk about Pops to his sister and brother who flew in from Illinois, and made it in time to say goodbye. 

When I came home and laid in bed, I figured my discomfort was heartburn. I felt like I was filling up inside. I laid there for an hour unable to sleep, and decided to walk to the bathroom. Right after standing, I felt the vomit coming. I raced to the bathroom and threw up for thirty painful minutes, kicking myself for not being a better cleaning lady, so I could have curled up on the cold tile floor instead of balancing over the commode with one arm. I drank water and went in to sleep with the baby.

I woke up feeling awful, took my daughter to school, then, breaking codes of household conduct, turned on the TV for George hoping he'd be less destructive with the distraction of cartoons. 

I told my brother I felt like I had the worst hangover of my life, and in a slow California surfer tone he said, "Bummer dude. All of the pain and none of the fun."

I nicked a garbage can on the roadside with my car when I drove to pick up Kiki, and then regained strict concentration on driving. When we returned home I found the thermometer and it read 105.

I took Tylenol and drank a Gatorade, then fell asleep. Each time I woke up my temperature went down and I became more of a sopping sweaty mess. 

The next morning I woke up feeling so much better. Thumbing thru Twitter, AstrologyZone let me know May 22, the day before, was the saddest day of the year. I thought about the day before; feeling like my skull was caving in on itself, a soaring fever and the stream of tears that poured down my cheeks thinking of my grandpa, and I agreed completely that it had to be.

We drove to Tahoe to be with my parents, and accompany them to an event for my grandpa hosted by his long time friends. It was nice to see my Dad open up, and to hear stories from their past. My grandpa's best friend, who perpetually hit on my giggling mother throughout my entire life, flattered her more in a very Bridget Jones moment when he replied, "Oh, I don't know about that," to my mom's comment, "oh, she's more beautiful than me."

We had to cut out early because after two Shirley Temples Kiki was about to do back flips while screaming, "Yeeeeeeee!"

After we came home, and a long time of her tossing and turning in bed, she managed to rest enough to drift off. She said, "You're hugging me too tight." I loosened my hug and started gently combing my fingers through her hair to relax her. With closed eyes, she told me to comb the other side too.

She will never know Pops more than through pictures and stories but he was always amused by her. It makes me think of my kids, and how their life will be with my parents. I kept thinking about having kids young, and the perfect reason would be so the kids can know their grandparents, become friends as adults, and, hopefully, learn how to rock a beret and Adidas track suit like a boss.

God our Father,

Your power brings us to birth.

Your providence guides our lives, 

And by your command we return to dust.

Lord those who die still live in your presence, their lives change but do not end.

I pray in hope for my family, relatives and friends, all the dead known to You alone, and especially, today, for Pops.

In company with Christ, Who died and now lives, may they rejoice in your Kingdom,

Where all our tears are wiped away.  

Unite us together again in one family,

To sing your praises forever and ever.

Amen 

For the repose of Pop's soul. Lord have mercy.

Oh Canada

About to give an interview on the mob

Im in Vancouver on vacation and I am loving this city. The backdrop is jaw dropping with waterfront surrounded by darkened mountains topped with the cutest dollops of little clouds.
The view out my window is of the silver water, and each day I see a giant cruise ship come into port.
This is my second time to Canada. The first time was 5 years ago when I went to Toronto to escape from reality, and spent three days storming around the streets with one of my funniest friends. I didn't do many tourist attractions because we slept most of the day and after waking up we'd drink in the park until we were led down a debaucherous path, and end the evening eating poutine and drinking beer.
Since I am with children this time around, I can only dream of sleeping all day. Black out curtains are miracle workers at keeping the sun from eking into the room, so they easily sleep till 6:30 am. When I return home, I will be putting them in the kids's room.
The potential to stay out late is off the table too, and we are back to the room by 7pm. Currently it is 8:10 pm and probably the kick off to a great evening at the restaurants down by the water, but I am laying next to a snoring baby wondering if I can turn the TV without disturbing the peace.

Canadians live up to the stereotype of being extraordinarily friendly. I sense the strain behind the forced smiles, so I don't know how much of it can be attributed to pharmaceuticals.
I met up with an old friend last night, and after not seeing her in six years, she looks and acts exactly the same. There were some inside jokes to her new life, like she referenced Portlandia a lot, so I assume her friends and her find the show highly amusing. But other than her new job, friends and city, she was the same person I knew back in the day.
It's weird how seeing someone after 7 years is not much different than the last time seeing them. It makes me think of how quickly those years have gone by, and the potential speed of the years to come. As we parted ways, I told her that when I see her again when were 50 I will only be able to utter, "Time sure does fly!"
I once went on a date with a guy from Canada. He looked like Chris Elliot, the actor from There's Something About Mary. My mom let me in on some terminology from her upbringing when she told me, "We used to call them Can-Heads."
I told her thats sounds racist, but after a google search that led to nothing, I think when she said "we" she must have meant her and her twin sister.
The date was uncomfortable from the beginning. He picked me up in a total piece of shit car and immediately informed me that he has a much nicer car, but chose to drive his jalopy because he recently got a DUI and felt this would be more inconspicuous.
Dinner proved to be a continuation of his bad luck because the restaurant name, Joe's Diner, led him to believe we'd be eating somewhere cheap, but it turned out to be fine dining. He was perspiring from the anticipation of a pricey bill, and fidgety while reiterating, "This is not the place I was expecting." As a student, I could understand the financial strain, and I ordered an appetizer for my dinner because I felt bad about the mix up.
On the walk back to his incognito mobile, he pointed out a Rolls Royce Phantom, and told me his girlfriend just broke up with him and is now dating someone who drives this car.
I didn't feel like saying, "Tough break. I guess the 'real car' you keep hiding back at home is a Ferrari?" Instead, I said, "How lucky for her," and kept walking.
We went to play pool in Santa Monica. He filled me in more on his ex girlfriend. He let me know she is a model."Oh, wow," I thought, as I nodded for the waiter to bring me another beer.
Since I had to endure him talking about his model ex-girlfriend who dumped his ass for someone who drives a much superior car, I lost any guilt about drinking on his dime.
Maybe he assumed my listening implied I would sink to be his rebound girl, but my intention of only giving him a pat on the back when he dropped me off at my apartment strengthened with every sobbing detail he shared about his previous relationship.
When he pulled up to my apartment I could tell he wanted to stick his tongue in my mouth, but I did a quick cheek peck and flew out the car as fast as a bird being chased by a cat.
He called my phone a couple times in the weeks after our date, but I never answered.
Maybe his model ex-girlfriend was Canadian too, and when she broke up with him she was too polite to say, "I hate you, and your boring, so I never want to talk to you again."
Instead she came up with a story to try and make him feel better, "I have to leave you because a billionaire wants to shower money on me all day long, and has promised to make my modeling dreams come true. How could I ever say no? You will understand, one day."
Then he said thank you to her because regardless of his down-on-luck DUI charges and the my-good-car-is-back-at-home grey cloud he sits under, at least he has good manners.

guten morgen

Nail Problems

It's recently grabbed headlines that nail ladies are being exploited by their store owners.

I never really got into mani/pedi lady time because I like to spend money on things I can't do myself. I can paint my own nails, in the comfort of my home where pants are optional. Also, I am not big on putting my feet in a warm bath filled with foot flakes, toe nails and athletes foot germs from other people.

In LA I fell into doing it because it's a thing women can do on a lady date that doesn't involve boozing or hiking. 

The last time I went the lady came up to me, put her hand on my shoulder, and asked if I wanted a neck and shoulder rub for additional five dollars. Her fuck me eyes in combination with touching me above the knee, made me want to scream, "how dare you?!"

I just gave her side eye, and whispered no thank you.

I felt bad for her because she had to act like she wanted to fuck me while trying to upsell me on a five dollar shoulder rub.

Usually the nail ladies made me feel like an unkept woman. I'd never shave my legs because of a 60 Minutes episode on the potentially deadly bacteria lurking in the tools and baths at nail salons. I'm surprised it didn't make the entire manicure pedicure industry go bust. Their best advice was to never shave before getting a pedicure.

I never did, but then spent most of this pampered relaxing time stressing out about my leg hair, and assume each fast comment in their native tongue followed up by a collective giggling, she was shit talking on me.

I could have Tae Bo'd her ass across the room, as she is probably much closer to my four year daughter's weight than mine, but I can't let things, like being laughed at by a group of women, upset me. Plus, I can't be completely sure they were making fun of me, so I read People magazine with the kind of intent it seems I give a shit about Sophia Vegara's workout routine.

I was reading the comments on Twitter following posts of articles about the nail salon work environment. Lots of people say they like to give big tips because the experience seems so exploitive. I don't see how this eases anyone's conscious since that extra tip money is going into the pocket of the guy who is skimming off their profits. 

I don't know what the solution will be. Boycotting would only put all these women out of a job, and zero dollars is worse than some dollars. I hope they get their money because picking at people's feet all day seems like the kind of job on the Dirty Jobs show. I guess I can understand the fuck me eyes; an opportunity to get to work on shoulders would be a welcome break from feet, and especially feet with hairy legs attached. 

Smile and Nod

Deers in the headlights

Yesterday when I ran up to my driveway I met the new neighbor. The house next door sat empty for the last year, and a family is finally moving in.
To my surprise, they seem normal. We started talking about getting together for a BBQ this weekend, and then she started commenting on how she wants to start running. I was supportive, and replied, that it would be fun to jog together, although this is a complete lie because I don't feel like having to deal with another person's schedule when trying to get my workout in.
She started explaining to me how she was really into exercising four years ago, and then she had trouble with her old house foreclosing, and her dad passed away, so she lost motivation and has not found it yet. As she was explaining this to me she kept haunching over and pinching at an imaginary inner tube around her body, explaining to me that her excess fat would be gone if she just did this thing she really wants to do.
I listened on, and gave sympathetic nods. Fuck, over the past four years I had two kids and during those pregnancies I gained a whooping 80 pounds each time, so I get it. Loosing weight is a lot of freaking work and takes time. Even this winter I stood in front of the mirror amazed as I thought, "After 25 years of praying for big boobs, they finally sprouted."
It was short lived, like a mirage; likely a combination of PMS, holiday eating and a top dollar push up bra.
My aunt, not blood related, just recently had a breast reduction surgery. She told my cousin, "I am so happy to get to join the itty bitty titty committee with you and the girls."
I had to tell my cousin, "Katie, even after she liposuctions her tits, they are still going to be enormous compared to ours."
My new neighbor isn't fat, and I don't even care if she is fat, I just don't want to hear about it. After listening to her go on about her fat, and wanting to exercise for five minutes, I didn't know what to say. I stood there with a frozen face of fake concern.
I think she wanted me to tell her, "no way you're not fat!" I couldn't bring myself to say it though. I was terrified I would give off body language that I'm lying. The pressure of trying to act sincere with someone I don't even know is too much to handle. I would fuck it up, and probably say, "you're not fat at all, there is nothing to worry about, go eat some ice cream," while shaking my head "no" with a big smile on my face.
Therein lies the challenge of reacting to someone who is degrading themselves or saying something that is "making things awkward," sirens start to go off in my head, and a ticker of important information is presented to me, "Don't smile. Act like you care. Nod. Don't smile. Say something sympathetic. DON'T SMILE!!"
Its genetic for me to react like a deer in headlights to a stranger who is trying to get a back rub from me. My parents are not overly emotional types, unless they are fighting about money, and in that case, the gloves come off and the dishes will be flying.
After my sister's dog died, my mom and dad avoided her for a week, afraid of seeing her sobbing and hysterical. When I was having my fourth cold sore of the year, and called my sister to complain and try to identify the stress factor, my sister told me to stop complaining, go take a Valtrex and drink a beer.
We are not the type of people to hand each other tissues, and cry about things together. We'd rather just punch each other in the stomach to cause a distraction from whatever is causing us anguish.
Maybe the new neighbor and I will be able to have a glass of wine over the weekend and she won't go down a well of self loathing. We are not on the kind of terms where she will acknowledge a punch in the stomach as endearing. I could say, "Maybe you should talk to your mom about this, thats who I like to barf my low self esteem on. You're mom can tell you to suck it up."
I'd have to hope she doesn't reply with a sad story about her mom. In which case, I'd freeze up, put my beer down, inching backwards, and think to myself, "Stay calm, and run for the exit."

Hello Guy

Doing dishes made more fun by watching the neighbors

It's raining this morning. The unusual rain helped George sleep in till 6:30 because of the cloud coverage. When the kids and I stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast, George kept repeating, "It's nighttime."
I let him know it's morning, but this unfamiliar state is called overcast. We took our time eating breakfast. After singing a song about scrambled eggs 500 times, I looked at the clock to see we had 2 minutes to get to school. By the time I had Kiki dressed and in the car, we were ten minutes behind schedule.
Usually, I would worry about bringing Kiki to school late, but the rain is a fabulous excuse, and I knew we'd still be one of the earliest to arrive. Rain makes Californians's clocks stop working. The disappearance of the sun makes everyone move in slow motion, so I could be sure the majority would be 20 minutes late.

Even the bus is running late

As I loaded her into her car seat the neighbors were outside smoking cigarettes in their pajamas. I gave a wave, and Kiki shouted, "Hello, neighbor."
When I was buckling her into her seat, she kept asking, "What are the neighbors's names?"
I don't have faintest idea, so I just said, "I'm not sure, lets call them neighbors."
Since it's been over two years living here, we are beyond the point of reintroductions. I'm pretty certain they don't know my name either, and even if we had another introduction, we'd likely just forget each other's names again.
Our neighbors are nice, and I am not sure how old the kids are, because, from what I can see out my kitchen window, it doesn't look like they work or go to school. I had to stop remarking on how they smoke weed in their driveway, their lax outlook on day drinking, and having no standards for dressing up for the day because my daughter can be a little parrot at times.
One time they came to the rescue with a fire extinguisher when my mom was watching the kids and my air conditioner started shooting out smoke.
My mom told me that when he walked through the house trying to find where the smoke was coming from, my daughter ran up to my mom and asked, "what's the goofball doing here?"
Luckily, he didn't hear what she said, and my mom shushed her and sent her back to our woman made tropical oasis in the backyard, a paddling pool with the slide propped over the edge.
Since then, I stopped calling the neighbors goofballs, dorks, stoners, or questioning why they're so underwhelming to their parents who seem to be hardworking people.
We always wave to each other since we are equally amused by each other, but in disjoint worlds.
My dad's reaction when saying hi to someone who he is blanking on is to say, "Hey, guy!"
The last time I saw him do this, I almost spit my drink on the table from laughing. It seemed so obvious my dad drew a blank when searching his brain for this man's name, and my dad just filled in the blank with "guy."
Commonly, people say, " Hey man!" But I guess, "guy" works. I don't think the "guy" even noticed. My dad is like Mr. Popular in our hometown, and at Steamers, the quaint bar down the street, there is always someone who comes up to have a chat. This drives my mom nuts. She finds the stop-and-chat agonizing, not because she isn't happy for people and their grandkids, but because her grandkids are better so she doesn't need to hear about any one else's. 

Like Ned Flanders calling to Homer, "Howdy, neighbor!" It keeps things simple and cordial. We acknowledge each other, but don't need to put a name to the face. It creates unnecessary stop and chats, and unless it's raining, I won't have the time for it.

Rainy day = inside play (and time to write a blog)

Restorative Yoga

Cleaning out my closet seemed like a good idea... until now

The other day I started my run and went into Beats to put on music. Usually this moment causes amnesia to any music I enjoy except for a certian three albums. This time though, I thought, "why not try something new? How about Eminim's album The Eminim's Show? It will be like college!"

After a couple songs I had anxiety from the angry lyrics. This album was my relaxation jam when I was taking vodka shots with my gal pals in our dorm rooms before heading out to party like we were the stars of Animal House, but now it was a total downer. I turned off the album and put on an old reliable.

This morning I opted for yoga because I felt tired and tight. The 30 minute video was not relaxing, but more agonizing, after realizing I am as tense and tight as a freaking drum.

I wasn't able to reach a calming state since my kids were running around the house and I had to keep an ear open for if one of them was trying to wash the dishes or paint on the wall. When I was trying to rock left and right in Happy Baby pose, I'd thud my body in one direction and then the other, I heard Kiki rummaging through the cutlery drawer saying, "where is a knife?"

I jumped up to find her looking at the kids plastic spoons, forks and knives (because so many toddlers are adept at cutting up their own food). She wanted the plastic knife to take to her play kitchen in her room, and in order to get back to the video, I picked one out quickly and gave it to her.

In the end of the yoga video I felt a big release and had a stern talk to myself on stretching after running. 

A headache started brewing after I woke up, and surprisingly the coffee I brewed did not make it diminish. The yoga didn't make it go away either. After the kids's music class and house cleaning, I realized the headache is because I haven't been wearing my glasses for the last couple days because I lost them in Tahoe over the weekend.

I only wear my glasses while driving and watching TV, so they mostly live in the bottom of my purse or under couch cushions, making them scratched up and crooked. 

I knew there was a spare pair somewhere in my closet, and now I'm knee deep in a mess of unfolded clothes. The clothes were never folded in the first place, but I feel some pressure to fold them before putting them back. I found my glasses in my sock drawer. I put on my newfound crooked and scratched up glasses, Cleaning Out My Closet is playing on a loop in my head, and I'm folding this pile of clothes, waiting for my headache to go away.

Some call it a face scrubber thing, and other's call it a vibrator

Diet Starts Today

"Diet starts tomorrow," I said, last week.

I am starting my Lifestyle Modification Plan today. I won't call it a diet, since all the experts say, "Diets don't work!"
I put an app on my phone to track all my calories and exercise. The app provides a calorie count for the day, and by following the recommended daily calorie intake, I will be where I want to be by June 22.
Although, I think I will get there much faster because of a few variables my app didn't take into consideration. The app didn't take into consideration my PMS bloat, and how I ate like a linebacker for the three days leading up to my period because I needed to store up fat or energy, or some shit like that, to help me cope with the onset of excruciating cramps and exhaustion.
The problem of ballooning and chowing for four is made tolerable by the mental clarity that comes with PMS. The clarity can be viewed as irrational bouts of emotional outrage, but the hyper sensitivity is like a fucking super power. Everyone, except my app, knows period bloat magically disappears a week later. Its like waking up after shedding a layer of skin, and the only way to celebrate is by throwing on a mini skirt and taking a selfie.
The app also doesn't acknowledge pre-existing exercise routine, and since I run every day, underneath my Michelin Man suit, I am tight and toned. Hence, after my PMS shed, and a couple weeks of dieting, I should be where I want to be. (fingers crossed)
I told my mom about my new app, and how I am disturbed to not be back at my pre-baby weight, and George is 2 years old. I explained the app to her, and she agrees that a food log is the most effective way to go.
When I offered to put the app on her phone, she said, "I can't risk getting thin, and looking sickly. I have to keep an extra 20 pounds on me for my health."
Alrighty then.
My sister and I used to say my mom has Prettiest-Lady-In-The-Room complex, where she never really worries about much because of her looks. She knows it too, and the result is her self esteem is not just high, but out of this world. So a statement on how keeping on an extra 20 pounds as an effort to look better than thin people is something I can only hope to one day feel.
I am over my calorie count for today, but it's Beer Friday! Beer is like a million calories, and sadly, one of my favorite foods. Cheeseburgers are another favorite food, but I am willing to shelf that love in order to fit into my itsy bitsy teeny weeny cheetah print bikini.
Needless to say, getting fit takes work, and I think all those actresses who go on TV and claim to eat McDonalds and ice cream and should be fined by the FCC since they are disseminating false information and giving the perception that fit bodies are created through birth rather than healthy diet and exercise. If they pull that moderation card, I still call bullshit because anyone who is that great at moderation is a boring fuck pants and shouldn't be allowed on TV.
It would be nice to hear some honesty, like, "I haven't had bread in 5 years," or, "I work out 3 hours a day."
Their confidence is likely on par with my mom, so to them, their exceptional looks couldn't be more than gift from god, a tap on the shoulder, regardless of their efforts, they're naturally radiant.
Only reinforcing another thing the experts say, "Looking good, is all about feeling good."

As if I didn't need another reason to eat fast food.