tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29239390242483215092024-03-13T20:10:59.090-04:00Couch to InfinityI run! I also self-deprecate like no other.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-58646616825319552382013-07-10T16:34:00.000-04:002013-07-10T20:44:25.135-04:00In the Thicke of itYOU GUYS, my radio keeps saying stuff like, "The tenth caller will receive an invite to a roof top pool party with Robin Thicke! Whooo!" or whatever and my brain goes right ahead and autocorrects Robin to Alan and then do you know what my brain does? It immediately has me being the tenth caller (even though I do not know what station I am listening to, or what the phone number would be, and also I am driving and couldn't find my phone this morning but NONE OF THIS MATTERS) and then I am at a party where Alan Thicke and I are riding the train from <i>Silver Spoons</i> (nowhere near the roof edge, don't worry) and talking about how weird Kirk Cameron got. It could happen.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">That is me in the green, there. (Okay, not really.)</span></i></div>
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I am totally aware that Growing Pains and Silver Spoons are two entirely different shows, but in my mind, all 80s TV is interchangeable to an extent. They are at least neighbors. They are each other's kids' emergency contact, even if they are third tier, after grandparents who live out of state.<br />
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My brain is awesome at making big, amazing leaps like that. Also, I don't know who Robin Thicke is, which helps. I stopped absorbing new information about celebrities in 1997. On February 21st, approximately.<br />
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Also exciting is that we started watching <i>Under the Dome</i> and even though we are only done with the first episode, I am super concerned re: the absence of Pauly Shore. At the absolute very least, he and Carla Guigino should be standing in the background of a shot, tending to some cows or whatever. That was some serious hilarious opportunity wasted, and I do not respect that. There was a chance for some <i>Under the (Bio-)Dome</i> and they didn't go for it. I feel like following the decision makers around and yelling "Boooo!!" like that old lady who publicly shamed Buttercup in <i>The Princess Bride. </i>She knew what was up.</div>
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I did very much enjoy that they employed a Steve Baldwin as a minor character (Resident/ Rough Patron.) For one very happy minute IMDBing, I thought it was the Baldwin of BioDome and I was all Fist Pump! but, no. Still good, though. Maybe I'll shelve the Boo-ing.</div>
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Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-41208710846228011742013-06-30T21:56:00.002-04:002013-06-30T21:56:36.661-04:00Today, I went to Target. It was a luxurious trip, which means I went ALONE, and not just alone, but alone after a weekend of solo parenting, which means bringing the kids everywhere with you, so, for example, getting milk is a 45 minute long (minimum) exercise in seeing how many times you can say "do not LICK that" in public. So things like going to Target alone or taking a shower and either not hearing a major crash or, at the very least, knowing that if you DO hear a serious crash and breaking glass and whatever, you can be assured that it is being dealt with by a competent adult, and that that competent adult is not the mailman that your son asked in and who came in worried that you'd left your five year old home alone when, no sir, you actually were just taking a shower which would explain why you now have soap in your eyes and you are squinting here in a towel.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
ANYWAY so I was at Target. And while I was at Target, a little girl, whom I would put at 3 years old, came barreling around the aisle mouth holding her butt and yelling, "I have to poop!" in increasing levels of panic. Following her a moment or two later was her slightly older sister, who grabbed her around the waist and yelled, "Stop yelling!" (I enjoyed the irony, personally.) Anyway, the three year old (understandably) freaked out and the intelligible "I have to poop!" went out the door and was replaced by growling and generalized yelling while the five year old started hauling her away.<br />
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At this point, the mom rounds the corner, talking rapidly into her cellphone, and tells her kids to knock it off and be quiet, and I am reasonably sure that she has no clue that her daughter has sent up poop emergency signals at threat level Alpha (I checked the codes: It goes to Alpha when they hold their butt while yelling.) since she missed the intelligible portion of this show, and only came in for the wrestling and shouting part. So, do I say anything? "Ma'am, sorry to interrupt your phone call, but I, person who is currently without her kids and so who is not currently carrying her parenting membership card which would make this statement less creepy, wanted to let you know that a moment ago, your daughter there was holding her butt and yelling 'I have to poop.' And we all know that the butt holding is threat level alpha, am I right?" I am pondering this, while appearing to read a label (but not really reading the label) when the kid solves my problem for me and starts up with articulate "I have to poop!" again. Yes! It is now out of my hands.<br />
<br />
But... what's this? The mom takes the phone away from her mouth and says, angrily, "I asked you if you had to go before we left the house and you said no, so now you're going to have to wait!" and goes back to her call.<br />
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INSERT RECORD SCRATCH NOISE.<br />
<br />
Okay. I try not to be parenting judgy, because I have for sure had my moments, but... really? Not to get all literary, but I am pretty sure that Jane Austen said "It is a truth universally acknowledged that any child who is screeching 'I have to poop!" and clutching their butt is going to take a crap right in their pants in the middle of Target if you do not RUN to the nearest restroom, which is all the way on the other side of the store behind the customer service desk."<br />
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Not everyone reads Austen, though, I guess.<br />
<br />
I am sorry to say that our paths then took us in different directions and I do not know, nor did I smell, the end of this story. Alas.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-876037665756791712013-06-30T21:29:00.001-04:002013-06-30T21:29:58.745-04:00Quitter.Hey, guess what? Metamorphasis was not my bag. Surprise! It really did get too Kafkaesque after a while. I would 100% rather be lifting actual weights and running instead of having a dance-based seizure and calling it exercise. Also, the pull toward disordered eating was strong and I don't want to go down that road because life is too short.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-22308069622790419922013-06-05T10:06:00.001-04:002013-06-05T10:06:19.747-04:00Accomplishments!When I say "accomplishments" up there in the title with a jaunty and excited exclamation point, you are thinking, "Whoa! This Tracy Anderson Metamorphasis junk works, huh?" Well, not really. What I mean by "accomplishments!" is that I remembered to out on pants before I walked the kids to school this morning and then I mowed the lawn for the first time since the time I ran over and underground wasp nest and then ended up with one hundred wasps having a violent argument inside my shorts.<br />
<br />
But, yeah, Metamorphasis. I haven't turned into vermin and been abandoned by my family yet. What actually has happened so far is that I have gotten atrociously bored and disillusioned with the whole thing and also managed to have a multi-day migraine that kind of punched any ideas of working out in the face. Plus it is the end of the school year for my kids, which means my short daily window of not having children watching and judging my every move is nearly over, and episodes of Wallander on Netflix are not going to watch themselves. So I am sort of on a break from it. I will probably restart soon, because I kind of miss eating double digit puréed apples every other week.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-60146207245066758442013-05-29T18:50:00.000-04:002013-05-29T18:51:34.682-04:00Bitterness, with just a hint of feet.So, in a fit of deciding to be a healthier person aided and abetted by Amazon Prime, I am now the owner of a ton of sun dried Goji berries. Here is the thing, though: They taste like bitterness, with a hint of feet. (I am assuming. I have never eaten feet.) The tag line on the back of the package says, jauntily, "Eating your way to health!" It sounds like a threat. There are a lot of them left. 16 ounces is a lot when they are dried so throughly as to be almost weightless.<br />
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Hey, but that's okay, because do you know what week it is? Body Reset Week! Also known as Subsist on Air and Hardboiled Eggs! So, actually, I'm not supposed to be eating them anyway. But I am sort of ignoring the air part of the diet and eating additional food so I don't, you know, keel over. The workouts are going fine. They're not hard, they're just weird and the sort of thing that I really hope no one ever witnesses me doing because I am afraid they would harm themselves with laughter and the resultant pulled muscles. I do not want that on my conscience.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-29085031001637930592013-05-25T20:34:00.000-04:002013-05-25T20:34:08.113-04:00ConfessionsI confess that the other night I ordered truffle fries and I did ask the kitchen to puree them, nor did I ask the waiter to pre-chew them for me. What I am saying is: I blew it. I ate adult food. There were also some other tapas I don't remember and only one of those was pureed and I didn't even do that part on purpose.<br />
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I have been, however, doing all of the 30 minutes of spastic bouncing and then the 30 minutes of lifting "weights" (weights can be no more than 3 lbs, ever) and kicking like an injured donkey.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the lifting no more than 3 lbs:<br />
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"Honey, I need you to carry this kitty litter upstairs."<br />
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He starts to walk toward me, totally willing, but then slows down when he sees me standing there, empty handed, and his joke-o-scope starts beeping or whatever it is that happens when he senses that I am full of crap. "Uh, okay. But are you serious?"<br />
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"YES. If I lift more than three pounds, I may engage some of the, like, larger muscles or whatever and then I will bulk up and be completely unlovable." (I may be paraphrasing but I am reasonably sure that's what the pamphlets were getting at.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, I then carried the litter upstairs, but I wept silent tears for my poor, manly arm. The litter was 20 lbs. I'm no math genius, but that is 17lbs of rule breaking right there. (I did that math in my head, even! Nice!) 17 lbs! I am no goody goody (see: non-pureed fries), but that can't be good.<br />
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<br />Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-79693626348762888922013-05-23T12:25:00.001-04:002013-05-23T12:49:30.783-04:00The Dynamic "Eating" Plan! Week One.Do you know what I am enjoying right now? Well, nothing. Do you know what I am eating? Carrot Parsnip Puree. I am eating it because Tracy told me to eat it. It is 1/2 cup each of carrots and parsnips, boiled and then, you guessed it, pureed. There is a half of a pinch of salt in there, too. (I added some turmeric because I am living on the edge, even though Tracy specifically instructs me that no additional anything, not oil, not salt, not spices or additional seasonings may be added. Turmeric is good for you, I muttered, and added some, then stirred it in before she could see. She wasn't there, but one has to be careful.) It is... orange. It isn't terrible or anything, I have nothing against carrots or parsnips, but it is not my average breakfast. It just is what it is. It is tautology food.<br />
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But, yeah, let's talk about this eating plan. Week one, which I am on day 3 of, is a Nutrient Boost week! This is when you push the red button on your dashboard that then engages your nutrient tank to blow some blue flames out behind you while you go faster for a while. By that, I obviously mean that you get a ton of fruits* and vegetables and then basically make baby food out of them, and then eat baby food for a whole week.<br />
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*Let's talk about apples. So, when figuring out how much of everything I needed to do one week's worth of these foods (a broken down shopping list would have been really helpful here, but I think figuring it out yourself probably burns extra thought calories, so, good thinking, Plan Maker) and tallying everything up, I realized I needed 32 apples. And I don't mean, I needed 25 apples but also got some extra apples for my husband and children, no. I mean that I personally was apparently going to consume 32 apples in the space of 7 days. Well, okay. I mean, why have a colon if you're not going to use it, amirite?<br />
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So, I log on to my grocery ordering thingy, and punch in all of my kale and my 32 apples and my parsnips and man, I am getting hungry just TYPING all of this, whoa, and anyway, so I finish up my order, add some things for the rest of my household to eat while I am eating stuff that has been prechewed for me, and hit send, scheduling my pickup for the next morning. (You pull up and pop your trunk and they put the groceries in there! You don't even have to make eye contact with anyone if you don't want to! It's great.)<br />
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The kids and I roll into the pick up area and I give the attendant my card and he runs it and comes back and I'm waiting and the kids are hitting each other with various small plastic figures but they are both laughing so I let them get on with it, and a manager comes out.<br />
<br />
"Ma'am?" she asks. "Ma'am, I am certain this is a typo and I almost called you this morning to confirm, but I told them, no, it's a typo, but I just want to make sure..."<br />
<br />
"Yes?"<br />
<br />
"It says here that you want 32 apples. I assumed you meant THREE, so I had them give you three, since you had three each of a few other types of apples." (These other apples being for the other people in my house.)<br />
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"Well, no, actually, I do want 32."<br />
<br />
(Silence, during which I assume she is worrying about the fact that I did not also order toilet paper.)<br />
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"Oh! Well, okay, I'll go fetch them for you and then we'll have to re-run your card for the additional amount."<br />
<br />
HA. So, you see, there is some outside confirmation of crazy. (Most of those 32 apples become Blueberry Applesauce, which is applesauce with blueberries in it. After I'd peeled and quartered 8 apples (two days worth) it occurred to me that they probably sell blueberry applesauce already made in stores. Tracy didn't say I could have that, though. She said I have to make it. Maybe the peeling calories are important. I am not taking any chances.)<br />
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And then I went home with my trunk full of fiber and nutrients and I proceeded to cook everything for one whole week. I started at 10 a.m., and I was taking care of the kids at the same time, and I only had one burner going (I only have one Dutch oven, so I only had a large enough pot for one thing at a time with the quantities I was making) and didn't finish until FIVE. My food processor hasn't done that much work since, well, ever, since I use it to make hummus about once every 2 months or so. It is probably looking over its contract right now to see if I am even allowed to do that to it.<br />
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When I was done making each dish, like, say, Sweet Potato Corn Pudding (which is1/2 of a steamed sweet potato and 1/2 of the corn off an ear of corn (don't make it ounces or anything, that is WAY too accurate for me and of course ears of corn are readily available at all times and no one uses frozen corn kernels or anything like that. What are we, animals?), I would spoon out my serving and eat it.<br />
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By dish number 5 (Gazpacho), I started farting. I am not sure how to put this delicately, but, here goes: They were the kind of farts where your dog (I do not have a dog, but I grew up with the best dog in America (RIP Mocha) and am therefore qualified with regards to dog behavior) will look disappointed in you and walk away. It was not good. It only lasted 20 or so minutes and I was alone in the kitchen so no one else had to suffer, but there was no getting away from myself. It is something I will have to live with, my Heart of Darkness. (The Fart of Darkness? The horror, the horror.)<br />
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So, the dishes in week one are, per day: 10 ounces of POWER JUICE ("and handful of beets" (does this mean by the stems? Or of chopped beets? No freaking clue. Measurements are for lesser beings.), kale, 1/2 an apple, and spinach), 4 apples worth of blueberry applesauce, 4 ounces of sweet potato corn pudding, 8 ounces of carrot parsnip puree, gazpacho, veggie protein soup (or, veggie "protein" soup, since the 2 ounces of chicken or tofu in the recipe is split between 3 servings), and 4 ounces of chocolate pudding (which contains dates and chesnuts and unsweetened coconut.)<br />
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And that's what you eat, every day for the first week. I have actually been eating most of it, and will concede that it is a ton of food by volume. It adds up to around 1200 calories, but I haven't been hungry. I have been doing things like skipping the juice (I broke my juicer a few months ago) and chucking the beet into the gazpacho instead, and I haven't actually had the pudding yet because I ate some macaroni and cheese yesterday and realized that I didn't feel like eating the pudding. I think I still resent how it came spraying out of the seams of my food processor and coated my kitchen in a thin miasma of cocoa powder, chesnuts, and water.<br />
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Week Two is going to be the real trainwreck, though. I added up the calorie counts for the options and it tops out at about 630 calories per day. Y'all, I spent a day in the ER a couple of months ago after passing out and do you know what I do <b>not</b> want to do? That again. So even though I am doing this in the interest of science and snark, there is no way that I am going to try to be a functional human/ present parent on that few calories, so obviously I will be supplementing the eating plan with actual eating.<br />
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I have to go bounce around my living room now.<br />
<br />Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-14901096503039119552013-05-22T10:55:00.000-04:002013-05-22T14:48:33.426-04:00Dance Cardio As "Performed" by the Anti-DancerIf there is a list of things that I am not, right at the top of that list is Good Dancer. Brandon Walsh and I sometimes talk about this in group therapy. I am an abysmal dancer. Growing up, I did not take a single dance class. (Instead, I opted to be the most non-graceful figure skater in America, and to show up for ice time wearing Simpson's boxer shorts and plaid tights, and also to wear thin the patience of my instructor, whom I called my "coach" because I was and am pretentious, by having 1000 jokes and not a lot of attention left over for my axle. This is, essentially, the story of my whole entire life.)<br />
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Exactly one half of the entire Tracy Anderson workouts are Dance Cardio. What Dance Cardio is, essentially, is bouncing around your living room like a spaz for 30 minutes. You have the option to do it twice! If you want! (So far, I do not want.) I am SO BAD at it. So bad. I see what she is doing. Since I have no mirrors in my living room, I, thankfully, do not see my version of it. Even calling what I am doing a version of it is an insult to "it." Mostly, I am jumping, with some bouncing thrown in just to mix it up. It is terrible. By the end I am both sweaty and filled with self-loathing and worried that someone was peeking in the cracks in my curtains and now Knows. For my upcoming anniversary, I am considering letting my husband watch me "perform" this and make as many jokes as he would like without hurting my feeling.<br />
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I just looked it up, though, and the traditional 12 year gift is silk/ linen, not humiliation, unfortunately. Back to the drawing board.<br />
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Tracy keeps saying that I will get better at it. Well, sure, <i>relatively.</i> But will I ever not feel like a complete moron? I have a whole basket of doubts.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-77649609687961887582013-05-22T10:16:00.000-04:002013-05-22T14:49:36.717-04:00Working out with KafkaYOU GUYS. When I say "you guys," I am referring, of course, to the entire internet. Hello. I know I have been remiss in not updating my blog, well, ever, but it is because I didn't really have anything to tell you. I totally have something to tell you now:<br />
<br />
You guys, I started doing <a href="http://tracyandersonmethod.com/metamorphosis/" target="_blank">Tracy Anderson's Metamorphosis program</a>. We totally need to talk about it. If you are not familiar with it, this means you are not an avid watcher of informercials. It's okay: Neither am I. In fact, I completely can't remember where I heard about this or what prompted me to buy it. Target was having one of those "Buy this expensive thing and get a gift card for a small amount!" promos and I am a sucker for that nonsense. Then sometimes I even lose the gift cards, but that's okay: You save the money just by getting them in the first place, a small and wrong voice inside my head assures me.<br />
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Anyway, the important thing is, I bought it. I bought it and then I brought it home and opened it and looked at it. I watched some informerically things about it on YouTube where Tracy Anderson and Gwyenth flailed their arms around together. I can flail, I thought to myself. (It is true. I can!)<br />
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But then I got to the diet. Well, it's not a diet, you guys, no. It is a Dynamic Eating Plan. And then I saw this: No coffee. NO COFFEE. And my prefrontal cortex immediately shut this down. "No, Pamela," it said. "Just... no." And it was right. It usually is.<br />
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And so, I put the DVDs and the workout tracker and the pictures of protruding hipbones in very small scraps of clothing and all the other associated detritus in a drawer, and left them there for 5 months. And I have to say, while they were in that drawer, they made absolutely no change to my body at all. And that was ridiculous. Do you actually have to DO the workouts, not just own them? Dang.<br />
<br />
But, you guys, a few days ago I pulled them out and actually started following all of the instructions (except for the no coffee because, come on, I live in reality with two small kids and not a ton of sleep) and it is for serious getting super Kafka-esque in here, just like the title promised. Awwww, yeah. Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-36089609904404861782011-12-29T13:51:00.000-05:002011-12-29T13:51:25.246-05:00Be a Slacker: Check!Oh, wow. So I haven't posted here since approximately forever ago. Time flies when you are doing absolutely nothing of note.<br />
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So the holidays are behind us, and now it's time to crack down on my to do list. I have been burning that business UP. Just now I checked off "Eat all mini Twix out of mixed bag of mini chocolate bars my husband inexplicably bought." Zzzzing! After that I also checked off "Return empty mini Twix wrappers to bag to result in a mixture of disappointment and relief when you realize that there is not, actually, an additional mini Twix left in the bag." Hooo boy, check, check, check. Now I'm working on "Make absolutely certain that your outer stratosphere of pant size pants are way too tight before you move on to Reality and Shame Spiral at the new year." It's going really well.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-25315714137508851722011-07-09T18:00:00.002-04:002011-07-09T18:34:18.263-04:00Have I Told This One?Do you know what I think my biggest flaw is? I repeat myself constantly. If you are my friend, you've heard my standup routine items way more than once, and you're not a different audience every night. You're the same friend who's sat through the story of <a href="http://couchtoinfinity.blogspot.com/2010/12/candygram.html">the FedEx Man and Me</a> and the <a href="http://couchtoinfinity.blogspot.com/2010/11/literal-poop-literal-fan-hooray.html">Time I Vacuumed Up Dog Poop</a> last time we were at Margarita's. And the time before that. And possibly before that, too. So, let me say again, since it is my terrible destiny: I repeat myse (I also interrupt, but that's another story for another day. And then another day after that.)<br />
<br />
SO anyway. I can't remember if I told this one yet (Also! Hi! Long absence! I have no excuse, other than brain atrophy and laziness and doing my best to keep my kids out of the ER because they apparently love to run into chair corners and park benches and each other and only my <i>Matrix</i>-style skills can prevent it.) but honestly, I owe you all SOMETHING, if you're even still out there, and I remembered this lovely story today whilst pushing a heavy stroller home from the farmer's market, full of children and produce and vast quantities of bread.<br />
<br />
So! Here goes.<br />
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Once upon a time, we had four cats. I do not recommend having four cats, especially if two of those cats are vastly stupid and come from someone so desperate to get rid of them that they really oversell their lovingness and undersell/ completely neglect to mention their less awesome qualities, like peeing everywhere but the box and crippling, running into the walls (which are always in the same spot! We didn't live in the M.C. Escher house) stupidity. During the time that we had four cats, we decided to move from Massachusetts to Arizona, and in plotting the move we discovered that moving pets is expensive and complicated, especially when moving to a place as hot as Arizona. Pets can't ride as cargo on planes where the ground temperature may exceed some random amount of degrees I now can't remember (80?) exactly, which is pretty much always in Tucson, and one can only take one pet as a carry-on per flight, so we'd have to make multiple trips. With cats under our seats. Driving that many miles with ride-hating cats in the car seemed cruel, better to take the shorter total time option of multiple flights.<br />
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So! We did. We brought two out first, and then went back for the remaining two, who have already been introduced to you as the problem cats with small brains. (They <i>were</i> very sweet, though.) As soon we were waving goodbye to our moving van back in Boston, it started to snow. And snow. And snow. We spent three days in our entirely empty house, with only cats and an air mattress, <strike>eating snow</strike> mooching off our supremely nice soon to be former neighbors (so why did they even have to be nice to us?) and checking frantically to see if there were any flights the next day. There never were.<br />
<br />
FINALLY the blizzard passed and roads reopened and life resumed. We, along with everyone else in the greater Boston area who'd been planning a flight in the past few days, descended upon Logan Airport. We brought something they didn't: Two highly incompetent in the best of times cats, crammed into carriers. We cheerfully made our way to the first class check-in line (Note: First class we are not, but billions of frequent flier miles, we have. Also, employer moving us was footing the bill and had sprung for first class when available. I'd never flown it before. Shame to waste it on this trip, as I assume normally there's no constant yowling noise coming from under your seat.) trying to pretend that the tortured howling was not, in fact, coming from our carry-ons. (SPOILER ALERT: It was.)<br />
<br />
The line went on forever. Forever and ever and ever. Many people in the line weren't used to this kind of wait in their first class lives, but bore it bravely, in what I picture as an almost British WWII sort of way. We, however, were used to this. In fact, we were thrilled. Three days in an empty house with nothing but an air mattress and two cats will do that to you. We were finally going somewhere! But... what's that smell?<br />
<br />
Oh dear.<br />
<br />
I am sure I've already mentioned that our cats were not big fans of travel. And that they were expressing their displeasure? Well. One of them, Maverick, the 19 pound orange one with an absolutely puny head, had expressed his displeasure in a new way, and one that we had to clean up. In the first class line. Behind a guy wearing a gorgeous, most likely cashmere, coat.<br />
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Because my husband is an Eagle Scout, though, (and because this had happened once before on a car move) we were prepared. Baby wipes, one person holding the cat while the other mopped (and everyone else around us tried not to breathe -- sorry, but no WAY were we giving up our place in line and missing our flight) and, well, mostly I've blocked the whole event. I did indeed indulge in a glass of complimentary first class wine following take off, though, which dulled the sounds of the yowling under my seat nicely.<br />
<br />
Ah, memories. We eventually moved back and did the whole massive cat move in reverse, too. So, to recap: I repeat myself, interrupt, and <i>never </i>learn.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-76172424610673548322011-01-25T20:17:00.000-05:002011-01-25T20:17:11.157-05:00I Am NeglectfulI can't even remember the last time I updated this. I feel like Jimmy Carter was in office, and the world was a simpler place in that even the carbohydrates were less complex than they are now. The fact is: I got an iPhone, and immediately commenced ignoring every other thing in the world, including but not limited to my children. I started texting furiously (sending a text on my old phone was similar to using the Pony Express.) Since I don't know many people who text (my husband still relies on <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096732/">these guys</a>) I have mainly been texting my parents and our babysitters, who disconcertingly text me back while they're in school. Pay attention in class, kids. My parents also (sparingly) text me back things like, "I hope you have unlimited texting" and "I think they're going to do a segment on <i>60 Minutes</i> about annoying texting this week." (This only encourages me, and they should <i>know that</i> from raising me.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, so my phone and I. It's a thing. It's a thing that's on hiatus, though, because my phone is currently on a business trip with my husband and his horror show of a phone is home with me, offending the inside of my purse with its downmarketness. My purse is all, really? The only game you have available is actually called "Default Game"? Like my purse should talk, being all full of rumpled receipts and a dried out packets of wipes. Alas.<br />
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In other news, it has been cold, and snowy and also COLD. I've been averaging maybe one and a half runs a week, and while I have been accumulating bonus points for running on unshoveled sidewalks and patches of ice, I haven't been logging the miles. While technically I belong to a gym, where technically there are treadmills, I so vastly prefer to run outdoors and it's hard to drag myself there if there's even a possibility that I can go outside and run in the middle of the road since there's no shoulder anymore and get sprayed with slush. Right? Ha.<br />
<br />
BUT since I signed up for the Chicago Half Marathon (WHOOP) I need to get my butt in gear, or at least not let the bike chain fall completely off. I want to smoke my time from last year.Chicago is probably somewhat sensitive about fire, though, so maybe I'll keep that figurative while there.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-52761787302332705182010-12-17T18:35:00.000-05:002010-12-17T18:35:24.717-05:00Just pooping in to say hi.A brief, Happy Holidays/ Sorry I missed Embarrassing Stories Thursdays special edition ("special" here means extremely short and more of a status update than a blog entry) for you. I offer the Worst Typo I've Made Recently (and then, blissfully, sent the email without noticing): "Oh, hi! I pooped my head into your office this afternoon, but you weren't there." Well, that's lucky for you, I guess.Can you imagine if they <i>were</i> there? Erf.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-11999168508779695802010-12-09T00:04:00.000-05:002010-12-09T00:04:44.886-05:00CandygramOne important thing to note: When it comes to Embarrassing Stories Thursdays, I totally take requests. And, lo, in my inbox, one has arrived and I am nothing if not accommodating and so I give you: The FedEx Guy Story.<br />
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Once upon a time in a land called Tucson, I was a moderately pregnant and entirely ill-feeling person. The fetus was a new addition to things and our get to know you period was not going well. Moving from any supine situation whenever not completely necessary (example: bathroom) was heavily frowned upon, or at least rewarded with an uptick in nausea. Thus, I spent my days on the couch, not bothering to moan unless my husband were actually home to hear it.<br />
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During this time, he was taking a series of courses at the U of A, and he'd watch the lectures online. He'd signed up to receive DVDs of the lectures before he realized he could just log-in and watch them, and three days a week, a new DVD would arrive via FedEx (and go in an unused pile) and the FedEx guy and I would have this conversation.<br />
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FedEx Guy: Package for you!<br />
Me: Oh, you really don't need to ring the bell. You can just leave this outside.<br />
FedEx Guy: Nope, sorry! You need to sign for these!<br />
Me: Okay! (I need to remind Andy to figure out how to stop these from coming.) Thanks! Bye!<br />
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And repeat one million times. (Okay, I'm exaggerating. (Ninety times.))<br />
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And then I got pregnant and proceeded to feel like total crap for approximately 12 weeks. On about week 9, I'm laying on the couch. I'm thinking some combination of "nnnughhhhhhhh" (but obviously not saying it out loud because what's the point? If a tree yells, "You did this to meeeeeeee!" at its husband in the forest and its husband isn't around, does anyone hear it? Does its husband buy it anything? The answer to both those questions is no.) and "I really need to figure out how to clean the ceiling. Ladders? Inspector Gadget? Some combination of the two?"<br />
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One important thing to note about the living room: It contained the front door. Another important fact: The door was banked by windows, and we had no curtains on them. Also, if you recall, nnnughhhhhhhh. And: Knock knock knock. I look. FedEx Guy. We lock eyes. I don't move. He knocks again. And I do the only thing I <i>CAN</i> do, really. Which is: Roll off the couch and lay on the floor, hidden from view less than 6 feet from his two feet, and pretend none of that ever happened.<br />
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He knocked for a while, and may have called to me a bit, and then there was probably some muttering, but eventually, he left the package (YES! Now, was that so hard? He always left it when I wasn't home, too.) and I scraped myself off the floor and pasted myself back onto the couch, where I stayed for about 4 more weeks.<br />
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Hey! This story's not over! The FedEx guy and I go on and on, to the point where I think we qualify for a Celine Dion theme song, if she's still doing those. At the end, I'll go back to the house in Tucson, say "what's up" to the new owners, and drop a replica of the Heart of the Ocean into the kidney-shaped pool in the backyard, and then casually leap over the 8 foot fence. Laterz!<br />
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Oh, but let's hop forward to my second trimester, where I'm feeling awesome and competent and like I'm going to get rid of everything and clean everything I don't get rid of or fold to within an inch of its even wanting to be alive! What's this? A box full of random crap that my parents hoisted into my arms as soon as I signed the purchase and sale on my first house? (Like, literally, I put the pen down and was suddenly holding a giant Rubbermaid container?) WELL. I'm eBaying this business. How many My Little Ponies are here? 18, including some baby ones and a small random giraffe that wears a bib? Research reveals that I should sell them as a lot, and My Little Pony freaks have super weirdo specific questions re: the ponies and their feet, so I sit down and GROOM those things. Mini comb, polish, etc. If this were Toy Story they'd be like OMG SEE? She hasn't forgotten us! She's PLAYING with us! Hooray!! but, no. Sorry, toys. It was in pursuit of the almighty dollar, and I shudder to think where you've ended up.<br />
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So, once they're all groomed and shiny, I line them up in my well-lit entry room and start photographing them. Own it, ponies. That's right. Who's America's Next Top Model, many years before that show was on? YOU ARE, PONIES. And I've got this huge belly and I'm laying on the floor photographing them and look up and lock eyes with: FedEx Man, who has been watching me photograph and encourage a giant herd of small plastic pastel ponies for who knows how long. Hello, thank you, you can just leave these I need to remind Andy to stop these from coming okay bye!<br />
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AND then I have the baby. He is very small and very cute and I have no idea what I'm doing. When he's just a week or so old, I've set up his little bassinet near the couch so he can sleep right by me while I sleep on the couch during the day, and I'm holding him and he's nursing and he passes out. Score! I say to myself. I will put him down and walk away! It will be amazing! So I carry him, still attached, across the room, and as I'm settling him into his bassinet, ruined stomach and half my chest on display along with the baby (I feel like here is a good place to note that you had to come right up to the door to see in, there were plants and all that shielding us from foot traffic), I look up and there he is again. Thinking, no doubt, <i>I wish this lady would get curtains.</i> Don't we all, sir. Don't we all.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-9083377863096613822010-12-08T08:56:00.002-05:002010-12-08T11:26:54.277-05:00It's good to have goals. (I mistyped that as "foals" first, which I think is good, also. In context.)My husband travels sometimes, and when he does, I'm a "single mom." You know, the kind of single mom who enjoys the 100% financial support and mental support via telephone but has to put the kids to bed on her own. So basically, it's no big deal at all, with the only snag being that the kids miss him and there isn't a responsible adult to be found in the whole house. (For example, I always stay up until way, way too late doing nothing or, worse, watching a movie that gives me a hangover. Not, say, <i>The Hangover</i> but something more like <i>The Ugly Truth. </i>Ugh.) In general, he saves me from myself and has been doing so for 13ish years. Bless him.<br />
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When he's away, the morning he leaves, I always set (hilariously) lofty goals for myself. This week's was something like, "Paint the bathroom! Build the basement shelves! Oh! Finally get rid of that crib! Organize his comic books by color and create an index for them!!! He'll be so excited!" and then becomes "Find top of kitchen table. Don't wash his iPod." So far I've done the second one of list two. Things are going well. I'm on my way to #1, too! He'll be so pleased.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-64624389482015544592010-12-02T07:49:00.000-05:002010-12-02T07:49:33.988-05:00Toot/ WhoopSO, many years ago, before the earth's crust had cooled (in 2007ish), I got in this post-birth nesting phase (I find it much easier to do these things when the baby is on the outside and can be put down) and started frantically Freecycling and craigslisting everything that wasn't nailed down in the house. In fact, things that were nailed down were occasionally wrenched out of the floor and sold anyway. EVERYTHING MUST GO. I don't even know why. I didn't even binge before I purged.<br />
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Anyway, the biggest items to head out the door were a set of coffee and end tables, because my two year old kept launching himself into orbit off them and I was 100% done with dragging them into the bathroom, beyond the gates, and then tripping over them when I went in there. Plus I didn't really love them and I was like, Tables, I will set you free. Via craigslist. And so I did. Good bye, fair tables. Some lady is coming to pick you up this afternoon.<br />
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And the doorbell rings, and this very adorable petite proper reserved Japanese (so many adjectives) lady is on my porch, here to view the teak tables. There are some water damage spots, I explain. I don't know if they can be repaired, but I will show them to you. "Oh, I am interested in restoring furniture, I do not mind some damage," she says. Okay! I say, but let me point them out anyway, I insist, and I bend down, clutching my little newborn, with my head at exactly her waist level and about 8 inches away from her. Here, I point, and here, and "Unexpectedly loud fart noise!" her area 8 inches from my head exclaims. "Whoop!" I bust out, totally startled. Then we both turn bright red and I straighten up and I'm stammering and she's BOWING and then <i>I</i> start bowing and then she's all, I'll take the tables! and starts dragging them out to the car and I'm trying to help and she's trying not to make eye contact and I'm all, let me help you! and she's all, no, no, it's fine, throwing money over her shoulder as she gets into the car and peels out of the driveway.<br />
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She shows up on Gmail chat sometimes and I always want to be like, "Toot!" or "Whoop!" Ha ha. /mean.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-91632268992503685272010-11-26T18:22:00.000-05:002010-11-26T18:22:58.111-05:00Oh hi.I apologize. I missed Embarrassing Stories Thursday because I was in a turkey-based food coma. Rather than share a subpar story or do one of the epic ones still in the pen no real justice, I will share with you this photo from yesterday:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IoFlHgy26-g/TPBA9B_tYwI/AAAAAAAAAMo/jFzkWz6Cqag/s1600/smallcar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_IoFlHgy26-g/TPBA9B_tYwI/AAAAAAAAAMo/jFzkWz6Cqag/s320/smallcar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Mais oui, that is me driving, and yes, that is a beer I am clutching. I do not believe that the children witnessed this. At least, that is what I'm telling myself.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-68675871914945829612010-11-24T11:37:00.000-05:002010-11-24T11:37:27.102-05:00Happy Holidays! I am gross and wishing for death.I've been getting emails from race photography places, all urging me to buy holiday cards with one of my mid-race photos on them. Ha ha HA HA: No. First of all, in about 50% of them, I look like I'm walking (I WAS NOT WALKING) and in 100% of them, I look like I want to die. (I DO NOT WANT TO DIE.) <br />
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Anyway, just to clarify, no. No, I will not be purchasing a race photo holiday card and sprinkling them in everyone's mailboxes this year. Sadly.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-62276960137648325902010-11-22T13:56:00.003-05:002010-11-22T18:30:18.279-05:00Reboot/ FacepunchSo, a couple of things, all ultimately related in the end. 1) It's Monday. 2) My husband and I are doing the Insanity* workout together and I sort of fell off the wagon last week because I kept getting pulled outside for a run instead or going to my exercise class because I missed The Girlz. (I have decided to spell that with a z.) But I didn't want to double up on workouts and increase the chance that my knees were going to burst like balloons. (There may have also been some laziness on my part.) I was supposed to be starting week 3 now, but instead I'm sort of rebooting week 2 and just pretending last week never happened.<br />
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(*60 days, no equipment, just hilarious painful things that you do on your own. It's HARD and I'm getting stronger for sure.) <br />
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So this afternoon, I'm <strike>flailing</strike> working out in the living room and it's all going relatively well, and then I accidentally punched my cat in the face. I'm using this opportunity to publicly apologize to him, though I don't think he reads my blog (I'll tweet it, too, increase the chances of him seeing it) and to note that this is an inauspicious start to the week. But! Thanksgiving approacheth, AND our hosts have rented a karaoke machine. So there is that, my friends. There is that. (Also: Pie.) (Mostly, though, I just wanted to use the word "inauspicious.")<br />
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Anyway: Monday. May the week improve from here, for Chewy at the very least.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-31649602916614934602010-11-18T13:44:00.002-05:002010-11-19T20:17:06.059-05:00Literal poop, literal fan. Hooray!For today's installment of Embarrassing Stories Thursday, I'm cheating a bit. I don't know if I'd call it embarrassing, but it does showcase <i>spectacularly</i> poor judgment, and while I was a child at the time so some bad judgment is to be expected, the emphasis is truly on "spectacularly" and it being in italics. It is the real deal.<br />
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Back in the day, we had a Kirby vacuum cleaner. In fact, I'm fairly sure my parents still have it, but I wouldn't know that absolutely because following this incident, it took out a restraining order against me and I haven't actually been allowed within 20 feet of it, which made entering through the front door difficult, since it lives in the hall closet. I've spent the rest of my life entering my parents' house either through the garage, back door, or even an open window. But do not feel badly for me: It is my own doing.<br />
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Anyway, allow me to set the scene: These were dark days in my family. I don't remember where exactly we were on this scale, but my mother was either really ill or she'd just recently died. This whole time period is kind of a blur to me, actually, I'm sure I'd fail entirely at putting most events of my childhood on any sort of timeline if we hadn't moved a few times, allowing me a house background to help ground certain things. Like, "That happened in house #1!" and "Oh, that was after 1990, because we lived in house #3!"<br />
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Also important to the story is the fact that we had an absolutely terrible dog. This dog had one redeeming characteristic, which was that she was adorable, and one sentimental redeeming thing about her, which was that she’d been my mom’s dog, an almost identical pup to one she had as a child. The dog’s many, many cons were: 1) It was psychotic. 2) It bit. and 3) It occasionally pooped indoors. (It also ate photos of people, so you’d sometimes be treated to seeing your own face looking up at you from the lawn. It was hard not to take this personally, and truly I think it was intended that way. Thanks for that, Spunky.) However, I think we’d lost so many things that it was hard for my dad to say, “Well, time to kill your dog!<br />
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So, my grandmother is coming to visit! It is important that we present a front of having it together so she not worry about us. This includes having the house totally cleaned. The dog helpfully craps in the living room moments before our visitor’s arrival. My dad, delegating, assigns me to pick up the poop. I head into the living room, ready to move the poo to its watery toilet grave, and, what’s this? The shiny silver (extremely expensive) vacuum cleaner, parked right next to the poop? And already plugged in? WELL. The cogs in my brain turn like the game Mouse Trap and it takes me .041 seconds to decide that vacuuming up the poop is a really great and efficient idea.<br />
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There are sound effects that go with this story (which I frequently tell at dinner parties (we do not get many repeat invites)) which make it infinitely better. I’m not sure I can recreate them here, but: VaroooommmWHIRRRRRRFFFFFTTTT, WHIRRRFTTTTTTTT, WHIRRRFTTTTTT and then, almost immediately, the smell of burnt crap. Everywhere. On your nostril hairs. In the living room. In the point of the house furthest from the living room. Possibly even across the street. Ohhh. My father comes galloping into the room, where I’m standing with my unfortunate permed bangs, holding the vacuum tube in one hand, having an out of body experience because I’ve realized what I’ve just done.<br />
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DING-DONG. Hello! Grannie is here!<br />
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This is a good place to note that the living room was DIRECTLY next to the dining room and we would shortly be eating dinner.<br />
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I don’t actually know what conversations ensued between my father and the vacuum repair place, but I can only guess that they were not unembarrassing and it wasn’t inexpensive. This is making me realize that I should send my dad an Edible Arrangement today. Or maybe invent a dedicated Poop Vacuum (one where The Shit does not literally hit The Fan and evenly distribute it inside the inner workings of the vacuum and burn it to enhance the smell?) and share the proceeds with him. Magical, fully funded happy retirement times for everyone! See you on the links (which I think refers in some way to golf or similar rich people pastime)!Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-34346615063960766082010-11-12T08:50:00.002-05:002010-11-12T21:41:55.938-05:00Famous People, Warehouse Shopping (Obviously)ZOMGosh, I totally didn't post anything for Embarrassing Stories Thursdays! I was totally thrown off by Veterans Day and spent the entire day either 1) thinking it was Wednesday. I even said, out loud, that it was Wednesday, more than once, and my husband (weird, someone was listening to what I said? Not normal on weekdays, when I am usually just surrounded by children who only seem to listen when I slip up and drop some above their pay grade knowledge, like the f-bomb when I burn myself, or similar, which they then put into regular, public rotation. But general, useful growing up learning knowledge? No. That they do not hear.) corrected me every time. But I still persisted in my belief that it was Wednesday. Or 2) thinking it was Saturday, which I also did a lot. It actually turned out to be a day that existed outside the normal calendar, in the end. Some sort of mix of weekend and weekday and holiday.<br />
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Since it was Veterans Day AND my children weren't currently harboring any sort of visible germ that could fell an elderly person in a single swoop (finally, I've been waiting for a window like this for at least a month) it was the perfect opportunity to unleash us on my favorite veteran (sorry, other veterans): My grampa. He lives just far enough away to normally be safe from our invasions, but today, no. I made large amounts of lasagna and salad to make up for the chaos we bring and the damage we do to his new, off-white carpet, which is more and more off and less white for every one of our visits. The boys LOVE to visit him and he and my husband enjoy discussing the possible causes of traffic and every obscure sports team ever, and I attempt to keep the kids from breaking his stuff. <br />
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I think my favorite ever visit was a tandem one where my sister and I both went at the same time and had all 4 kids with us and they were going in his bedroom and he insisted it was fine, there was nothing they could break or get into, and then he paused and went in there to check and came out with a couple of boxes of bullets and shotgun shells and a knife. Hahahaha. So. Visits there = #1. They really are.<br />
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But! I owe you, dear and every more volume of readers (where are you all finding me? I love the internet and the fact that it means people in Denmark and South Korea know about my <a href="http://couchtoinfinity.blogspot.com/2010/10/time-for-some-stories.html">flights of vomit tasting</a>,) an embarrassing story. The problem here is that I haven't been running lately, and when I am in the middle of a long run, THAT is when my brain shuts off and spits out all the stories from my past and puts them in written format. What I am doing right now, instead, is a workout called Insanity, which will probably lead to me being committed with some sort of foot fracture and a blown out knee, but check out my abs! It doesn't lead to zen headspace, but more "watch out for the couch!" and "haha, look at that guy on the screen's face" and "ow" and laughing at the instructor saying, "Rest when needed! (obligated to say that legally) BUT PUSH THROUGH THE PAIN." Which? Which, Shawn T.? I am too sweaty to comb through your contradictions and frankly I cannot do these moving pushups anyway.<br />
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Instead of a story I should just post video of me trying to do these workouts: Serious LOL. I am very flail-y and incompetent.<br />
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But! Do not worry. I will unearth a story. <br />
<br />
So! It's 2008, and the children and I are in Costco, procuring enough food to see us through the apocalypse/ the weekend. It is election fever time, and everyone's all "I can see Russia from my house!" and coming up with elaborate security light configurations to prevent lawn signs being stolen (I am way too lazy for that, which is why our signs got stolen. Twice.) and it's utter madness. <br />
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But who is that, selecting a flat of LifeWater or SoBe or whatever, one of those drinks that I don't understand, is a random guy. Who happens to be black. <br />
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"Barack Obama!" shouts my three year old, pointing. "Mama! Look! It's Barack Obama!" Joyfully, and, more importantly, at ear-splitting volume. And, MOST importantly, the guy TOTALLY hears him. Unfortunately in this instance, my kid has reasonably good enunciation skills for his age. <br />
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So then (after turning tail and zooming down another aisle) I am saddled with the enviable task of explaining how not every black man we see is Barack Obama and, in fact, if the man in question is doing his own shopping at a warehouse store in New Hampshire, it is <i>extremely</i> unlikely to be the presidential candidate. If we are going to see him, it will be at a rally (which we did! And you can point and identify him all you want there, son!) or on television. <br />
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This seems to have sunk in, since it hadn't happened again. Although I've probably just jinxed myself. I do that a lot.<br />
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I feel like this was weak. I'll either have a better story next week or post video of myself trying to do the Insanity Cardio Pylometrics or whatever. It's only fair.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-41160726775440227982010-11-10T08:12:00.001-05:002010-11-10T08:18:22.819-05:00Yesterday: Bed, Bath and Bodyworks and Beyond (-N-Things)Ha. Yesterday. It started out fine, normal morning at home with the boys, puttering around and pretending to be Ironman (them) and trying not to make eye contact so I don't have to be, like, The Hulk or whatever (me) and then I got it into my head that I needed a Keurig coffee maker, like, RANOW. I was cleaning the Mr. Coffee and it flaked some paint off its warming tray (as it is wont to do, naughty Mr. Coffee) and I was all, you know what, Mr. Coffee? No. No. No is what, Mr. Coffee. I banish thee to the basement. You were meant to be a temporary measure when my beloved Grind 'n' Brew kicked the bucket by repeatedly vomiting grounds all over the kitchen, and you have overstayed your plastic, average welcome. I will keep you for emergencies but, let's be honest, will there be an emergency that the French press cannot handle? We shall see. Be gone.*<br />
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(*SPOILER ALERT I got a Keurig and WHOA I HAVE HAD THREE CUPS OF COFFEE SO FAR TODAY SAMPLER PACK WOOOO So much information and conversations with appliances to impart, OMG sit back and enjoy.) <br />
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So I wake the younger one from his "nap" (today instead of just the more mundane sleep, he went with a small amount of that plus a garnish of making a new and interesting smell and tearing down the curtains (curtain rods straight out of the wall, no halfway measures!) in his room "because of his rocket boots") we eat lunch and then pile into the car and head to school. Children delivered, I clutch my 20% off coupons and drive straight to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I arrive and... it's not there. Oh. That used to be a Linens-N-Things and it's been closed for AT LEAST two years AND I went to the closing sale. And my gym that I only just quit going to this year is next door to it so I've parked here probably 100+ times since it closed. Huh. Okay. It's a good thing I've only lived here for 4 years so I don't have even more history to get confused by, because this happens to me all the time. If I still lived where I grew up, I'd be like, "Let's go to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caldor">Caldor</a>! Or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zayre">Zayre's</a>!" So I've got no idea where the closest Bed Bath and Bodyworks and Beyond is. I go to places like that approximately never. Since my phone is circa 90210 and practically comes with a giant carrying case with a long curly cord that I have to plug into my cigarette lighter (and I absolutely never remember to charge it and/ or bring it with me) I head home to use the interwebs for location sourcing.<br />
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And I get barely a mile before the guy in front of me rams into a gorgeous full grown lady deer crossing the road. It was sad stuff, but somehow my once totally porous heart is hardened (I cried once because I saw a horse laying down in a field and would it be okay? WOULD IT BE OKAY? But since I had kids and got past the postpartum it's seriously like I have absolutely no room for any extraneous suffering and my brain just doesn't compute it. It's not like I go around all Clockwork Orange, or like I didn't pull over and make sure someone called animal control and the police, but while pulled over I didn't dry heave or cry hysterically for 45 minutes and then take a nap in the backseat.)<br />
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So, no coffee maker and one maimed deer later, I get home and check the internet, which knows everything. Alas! There is one nearby, right over the border in New Hampshire! I head there immediately. Coffee! You will be mine!<br />
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I arrive and it's even right there, near the door, which is surely a sign. I heft it straight onto the checkout counter and hand over my coupon and credit card and think about sending Mr. Coffee to the basement where he belongs, in the Land of Misfit Appliances. But what's this? My card is declined. Please try again, I request. Declined again! And again! The cashier calls the manager over and they both look at me suspiciously. Am I the cause of the economic collapse? Am I an identity thiever? Blast! I am neither and also I would like coffee immediately. But I have no choice but to admit defeat (FOR NOW) and go home and iron this out.<br />
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I get home! And, indeed, there is a message from the Fraud Protection Services (protecting NO ONE but themselves, since the consumer's liability is limited -- you do not fool me, Chase) saying they'd like me to call back and confirm my recent purchases. So I call and do just that, and according to the robot who answered, the problem seems to be that I've made several purchases out of state. (This has happened to us before.) Hey, robot, do you have a map? I can casually run over the state line and back. I shop over state lines all the time. I wonder how people who live near the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_Corners">Four Corners</a> feel. Their cards probably get shut off once a week, minimum.<br />
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But! My card is back on! I call my husband to check in, and while we're gleefully bashing Chase, call waiting beeps. Oh. It is the school. This is NEVER good. The last time the school called it was a cheerful, Hello! Please come collect your child and take him directly to the ER to have the washer cut off his finger! So I answer, flinching because that helps. And, indeed, it's below average information: My youngest wacked another kid in the face and could I please come collect him. Erf. Awful. SO I head to the school, collect the angelic looking and even seeming (oh, but I <i>know</i>) child in question and cart him out to the car. And drag his other child hitting self over state lines to buy a coffee maker! <br />
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Make sure to get the same clerk and brandish my legitimate card and she cares not even the tiniest bit, ha. But! None of this matters because I have SWEET MERCIFUL COFFEE and it is in my hands. Home we go!<br />
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Then we make a card for the kid he hit (which turns out to be one of the sweetest, calmest little girls in class, and the child of a good friend of mine, which is both better and worse depending on how my brain twists this information around) and go to deliver the note and pick up his older brother.<br />
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But, really, the moral of the story is that I have a Keurig now. It's fancy and makes the rest of my kitchen look like war years deprivation in the UK in comparison. Also, so far, the coffee is meh, and I need to do some K-cup research to find what works for us. However! This solves the problem of how to make drinkable coffee while my husband is traveling, because I sincerely cannot make palatable coffee no matter how hard I try. I swear I even ruin it a little bit when he sets it all up and I do nothing but hit the brew switch. You can tell it was me because it's just that tiny bit less delicious. It is my flaw. Or one of them, at least.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-66936137365712155162010-11-09T09:08:00.001-05:002010-11-09T09:09:32.904-05:00Running Post! Playlist AckshunSo I've had some requests* for playlist suggestions (*okay, one request), so here they are. A lot of them are lifted directly from the <a href="http://runlikeamotherbook.com/">Run Like a Mother</a> <a href="http://runlikeamotherbook.com/good-running-tunes/playlists-tunes-to-move-to/">playlists</a>, for which I have been very grateful in my quick attempts to throw something new on the 'Pod* (*I like how I saved so much time by adding the apostrophe instead of the i and THEN also adding this note about it) and not wanting to eat too much into the time available for the run.<br />
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My current list (which I usually listen to on shuffle)<br />
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I Stand Corrected - Vampire Weekend<br />
Electric Feel - MGMT<br />
Empire State of Mind - Jay-Z/ Alicia Keys<br />
Stronger - Britney Spears<br />
Only Girl in the World - Rhianna<br />
Defying Gravity (dance remix) - Idina Menzel<br />
My Life Would Suck Without You - Glee Cast<br />
Hate on Me - Glee Cast<br />
Meet Me on the Equinox - Death Cab for Cutie (I especially like this for "everything ends" -- which is a nice reminder when I'm in the crappy feeling part of a run)<br />
Hands in the Air - Girl Talk<br />
Telephone - Lady Gaga<br />
Tik Tok - Ke$ha<br />
Here Comes Your Man - Pixies<br />
Flashdance (What a Feeling) - Irene Cara (Really never fails to make me crack up.)<br />
Last Name - Glee Cast<br />
Give Me a Beat - Girl Talk<br />
Mr. Brightside - The Killers<br />
LDN - Lily Allen<br />
Bad Romance - Glee Cast<br />
Defying Gravity - Kristin Chenowith/ Idina Menzel (This has all the stage talk etc in it but works for me because I love it so much.)<br />
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So! There's what I'm currently running to, with some changes to come when I get tired of it in a week or so. Please do add suggestions in the comments, because I'm always looking for more stuff.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-43467138215638261072010-11-09T08:48:00.001-05:002010-11-09T10:22:22.551-05:00(Dis)organized: Thanks, olden timey peeps.So I am epically disorganized. There are rooms in my house where, if I were to let an organized person into them, they would probably have a panic attack. In fact, I did once let my cousin into my most amazingly terrifying room (and it was in worse than normal shape because I was in the middle of sorting thousands (truly, I know I exaggerate at almost all times, but I am actually not, right now. Maybe I should. OKAY MILLIONS) of ancient photos of my mom's side of the family.) My sense of wanting to share all the super awesome stuff I was finding overrode my anti-shame safety features and I was all heartily OH WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE THIS LETTER I FOUND and she stopped in the doorway and said, "Oh!" I think she'd thought I'd been robbed. Well, yes. I was robbed: Of any natural ability to create and maintain any kind of order at all. (But that letter WAS awesome.)<br />
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Anyway, so I'm tired of it. My house is about 40% functional and 60% cram everything in there and shut the door so no one will see. I know where the first aid kit is and I'm pretty sure I could dig up my passport but if you needed, say, wood glue, I would probably draw a blank and then go buy more and then the same thing would happen next time. So I decided, you know what? I'm an adult. I have an adorable house that I am straight-up ruining through ineptitude. So I went where I always go where I have a problem: Directly into denial.<br />
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But then, a few weeks (months) (okay, years) later I went to the next best place, which was the library. And, indeed, they did have the solution, as they always do. And: Free! So I got out a book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Whats-Disorganized-Person-Stacey-Platt/dp/1579653723/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1289309330&sr=8-1">What's a Disorganized Person to Do?</a> and I started reading it, figuring it would, if not solve my problems, at least give me some tools with which I could (sigh) solve my own problems.<br />
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And indeed, the book contained many, many helpful items. Unfortunately, my house is so completely unhelpful. Here are some tips for your pantry! (Er, what pantry?) Your mudroom can be more efficient! (Mud. Room?) Your foyer can store a multitude of items! (Hmm. Foyer?) Your linen closet! (Hmph.) Your bedroom closet! (Is the size of a phone booth!) Your garage! (Again, nothing.) Your basement! (Dungeon, size allows it to contain furnace, water heater, and not much else.) <br />
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So perhaps there is a reason my disorganization has reached epic levels despite a nearly restraining order level obsession with IKEA. My house is conspiring against me. It was built for 1850s and we've done nothing to improve it's storage abilities since then, doing things like <i>adding indoor plumbing</i> and <i>owning refrigerators</i>. (Well, actually, and <i>adding a small addition</i> but that's not that funny and, frankly, that addition is almost exactly the footprint of the bathrooms so we're sort of at square one.)<br />
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So my house is designed for someone who owns two outfits, no food processor, and who can store stuff in the minuscule basement because there's no furnace back in the olden times. So, essentially, I have to go buy the equivalent of a mace or a battering ram from the Container Store or the aforementioned IKEA (which I think would be, respectfully, Elfa shelves and BJURSTA items) and beat my house into submission. And so I go at it, hanging hooks and shelves and putting things in boxes and putting those boxes away etc. And, frankly, I'm failing. Everything looks exactly the same. I hang hooks and people hang random items on them immediately, almost before I can even finish screwing them in. I spend a whole week clearing a space in the basement to build some shelves and 1) my children lock me down there (really, but they did let me out (which is too bad because I stashed a book down there for exactly that eventuality)) and 2) as soon as the space was cleared, SOMEONE stored a broken down crib in it when I had my back turned.<br />
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As I see it, I am faced with two choices: A) Give up. (I am so very good at this.) Decide it will be easier when the children are older and let chaos reign in the meantime. 2) Get more battering rams and, more importantly, more game, and rule with an iron fist. (I just typed "iron fish" which I actually like better but which, sadly, makes less sense and sounds undelicious.) <br />
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I'm still deciding. But, just in case, I sort of took dozens of pictures of my house at its worst and might post them as before and then, when the shame gets to me enough to motivate me to use the iron fist/fish, after stories. Maybe. This depends, as all my potential kareoke performances (WATERLOO) do, on how much I have to drink. So: We'll see.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923939024248321509.post-19430617512086710922010-11-04T13:44:00.001-04:002010-11-04T13:47:01.013-04:00Why, hello, prisoner road crew.Oh! It's Thursday! Here is your weekly slice of my mortification! This excites you mildly.<br />
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I had a hard time choosing today's story, but saw a road work crew with a Middlesex County Sherrif Department van keeping them company and those bright orange jumpsuits decided it for me. <br />
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SO rewind to sometime this past summer, and they're repaving our road. My boys were a mixture of very excited (younger one, who likes trucks et al with enthusiasm bordering on epic) and mildly but not terribly interested (older one, who's said, "SIGH I hate dinosaurs." You hate dinosaurs? Why? "SIGH Well, I guess I don't <i>hate</i> them, but I'm just so tired of hearing about them. 'Oh, do you want to talk about dinosaurs?' <i>NO." </i>Ha ha. He's not 100% on the boy toy trifecta of dinos, trucks, and guns, I guess. Right on, sir.) <br />
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But, despite antipathy on the older, it was still deemed more exciting than anything else going on at 8:30 in the morning (note that the TV wasn't on) so we accumulated in the foyer and filed outside. I was still in my pajamas, which consisted of a racer back tank and yoga capris, no bra. The no bra would normally keep me from the outdoors, but we didn't want to miss the show as it went past the house, so I figured I'd just hold the younger one on my lap as a visual shield and be golden. Onward, I say! To the front porch.<br />
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Oh, so many machines. There was a truck of some sort, something that made noise, some sort of giant rolly thing, who knows. It was loud, smelled vaguely terrible, and it was vastly entertaining. The road crew talked to the boys, even, which blew their minds slightly. (The older one wasn't really impressed. He rarely is, unless you have in depth superhero knowledge, like, perhaps, information about Hal Jordan's childhood or can unravel the secret of why there's more than one Robin in a way he can process.)<br />
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Oh, wow. Now the machines are mostly going out of sight. Good bye, machines! We enjoyed your -- ack! The small one is taking off! I launch myself after him, yelling, "You were supposed to be my visual shield!" (Okay, I wasn't really yelling that. It was more just a mixture of "Stop!" and things along the lines of "Dammit!" along with picturing him getting hit by a car or crushed by the rolly thing. He is, of course, loving this game of chase, and I am, obviously, not. I am not built to run with no bra, and especially not in public.<br />
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But, hark! What's that in the non-distance, pulling up right at the stop sign about 2 feet from my face? Why, it is a van full of prisoners, who have been procured to clean up our little local playground that day. Hello, sirs. Oh, please, DO gawk, that is what I'm here for, in fact, and you have been in the clink (are we still calling it/ did we ever call it the clink? Oh! A helpful list of <a href="http://blogs.chicagotribune.com/news_columnists_ezorn/2006/04/avoiding_prison.html">prison euphemisms!</a>) for so long and I sympathize. Oh, wait, no: empathize? No, wait! Neither! OMG, visual shield, you have failed me. And thusly I gather you in my arms and haul you inside and stew in a heady mixture of shame and embarrassment for approximately one hour. The end.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277052380636939060noreply@blogger.com2