A child's intuition

It's hard to even celebrate her departure because he is all sad about her leaving.  For reasons that escape me (sort of), he really likes having her around and had a great time while she was here.  Which meant that I was a total powder keg because I couldn't even really talk about how miserable I was.  Let's just say I've got a lot of pent up tension.  I see some hard workouts in my future.

But I was able to do a silent, mini-happy dance last night as I was lying in bed with Zeke, chatting with him to help him calm down and go to sleep.  We were talking about the fact that my dad is coming to visit this weekend, and Zeke is so excited to see him.

"How many sleeps til Papa comes?"

"If you don't count tonight, four.  So we need to hurry up and get to sleep so that when we wake up, we'll only have four sleeps left."

"I can't wait.  It's going to be awesome."

"You know, Ma is leaving tomorrow."

"I know."

"Does that makes you sad?"

"No."

"How come?"

"I don't like her."

"You don't??  Why not?  She loves you and is very nice to you."*

"She always says stupid stuff to me."

Ahhhh... my son.

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* Regardless of my personal feelings, I'm not so much of an asshole that I'll turn my kids against their grandmother.

The Rant, and Why

She's leaving in three days, so I really should be very Zen about the whole thing at this point.  But I'm finding myself increasingly agitated these days about MIL.

I started noticing that though my children liked having her around at first, lately they've been avoiding her.  I think it's because she projects no strength or authority or anything that would make people want to listen to her.  One of them will ask for a cup of milk, and instead of just getting it for them (if she's up - I certainly don't expect her to wait on them), she'll ask in a simpering voice, "would you like Ma to get it for you?"  And something in them bristles, and they'll say, "no, I want Mama to get it." 

It's annoying, and something that, if they said it to me, I'd say, "here's your cup of milk.  You can drink it or not, but you don't get to choose who pours it." 

But she just says, "oh, all right," and doesn't push the issue and allows herself to look like a doormat.

And they tend to ignore her when she's talking, because she's always fucking talking.  About nothing.  Just a silly, running commentary that most of the time requires no response, so they just tune it out.

I know I should be furious at their rudeness toward a grandparent, and I do say things like, "Ma asked you a question, you need to answer her."  But inside, I get it and it fuels my own ire.

Because that weakness, that lack of gumption, that unwillingness to ever make waves, that utter uselessness as a person, was what resulted in my husband being horribly beaten and abused as a young child by her monster of an alcoholic husband (his stepfather), and she didn't do a fucking thing about it.  Didn't stop it.  Didn't leave.  Didn't get the kids out of the house to go live with someone else. 

Didn't call the cops or kill the motherfucker, which what I would have done.  Particularly since having children of my own, I can say with complete confidence that if anyone I was with abused either of my kids, that person would be either in jail or dead. 

But MIL just let it go on for YEARS.  It only ended when J's older brother got big enough to stand up for himself and put the asshole's head through a wall.  But J was younger, and smaller, and totally terrified of getting in trouble if he said or did anything.

This has had, predictably, permanent effects on him, and on our marriage.  I am now attempting to pick up the pieces that she let fall, because she didn't do the one thing that is every mother's primary responsibility towards her children -- protect them until they are able to protect themselves.

And for that, I hate her.

High Hopes

I was having a sleepless night recently and finally got so bored that I picked up my iPad and went online.  There was an email from Babycenter.com - I set up an account with them when I was pregnant with Zeke to track my progress, and used them again with Josie, and so now they still send me emails about developmental milestones and things like that.  This email was promoting their child height predictor, a tool that takes your toddler's height and weight at a certain age and tells you the height your child will likely reach by age 18, factoring in the height of the parents as well.

Josie has been on a massive year-long growth spurt.  We record the kids' heights on a door frame in our bedroom from time to time, and for whatever reason, got into the habit of doing it at least every Christmas Eve.  When we measured Josie this past December, we discovered that she had grown a full 6 inches in a year.  She hasn't gained much weight - she might be 26 pounds soaking wet - but she just keeps getting longer and longer.  When I put her stats into the height predictor, it told me that there was a 90% likelihood that she would be 5'7", or within an inch of that either way.

I have been both happy for her (having been 5'2" since I was about 11 1/2, I would love to have at least a few extra inches) but also baffled about where this apparent tallness is coming from.  I am short, my mother is short, and J's mother is short, so I couldn't figure out.

But then I look at her, and take in her feistiness and determination, and I realize who she takes after.  I may have another Ruth on my hands.

Which is great, especially for her.  Ruth could be difficult, but she was also a force to be reckoned with, and her intelligence, determination and unwavering high standards led her to much success in life.  And Ruth was beautiful and elegant (and stood about 5'8").  So Josie could do a lot worse.

But of course, it's a little early to be counting chickens. 

When I was a baby, my pediatrician, Dr. Irv (he was a close friend of my grandparents, so I knew him as "Dr. Irv" rather than by his last name) looked at my hands, which are big for someone my size, and predicted that I would be 5'7".

Yeah... not so much.

Perspective

I'm having my daily morning snuggle with Josie.  She's drinking some milk and is leaning into me while we watch Yo Gabba Gabba.  I've got my arm around her, holding her close. 

She looks at my shirt, which is black with white elongated dots:

She takes a long, beautiful finger (she totally has my Grandma Ruth's elegant hands) and traces the dots.

"What are those, Mama?"

"They're dots."

"No, they're not."

"They're not?"

"No.  They not dots."

"What are they?"

She thinks for a moment.

"They carrots."*

"Hmm.  I see."

She nods, and then turns back to her milk cup and her show.

Okay, then.

______________________________________
*Pronounced "cawwots" for full cuteness effect.

Minutiae, and a realization

A number of people have asked me, "so how's it going with MIL?"  They always ask the question as if they're bracing themselves for something in response, like an explosion or a temper tantrum.

But, I vowed not to be an asshole.  A vow I'm (mostly) sticking to.  And in all honesty, things are fine.

All I can really say is that she is as she ever was.  Somebody I have difficulty understanding on just about every level - why she acts the way she does, why she says the things she does, why she talks about the things she does - but somebody who is essentially harmless.

The hardest part is dealing with the incessant questions about things that it would not occur to me to care about -- like where everyone has their morning tea.  Or detailed descriptions of what she had for morning tea, or what the children had when they stayed with her for a couple of hours while I was out running errands.

My mom was traveling in the Caribbean for work, and called me from the Miami airport when she was back in the country.  We talked about her trip, its successes and difficulties, politics, what workout programs we were doing, funny stories about the kids, the usual.

When I got off the phone, MIL said, "how's your mum?"

"Oh, she's good.  Stuck in the Miami airport for a couple of extra hours because they missed an earlier connecting flight, but her trip went well.  She's fine."

"Stuck in the airport?  Is she going to have her tea in the airport?"

"Uhhhh... I assume that if she's hungry, she'll find something to eat.  We didn't discuss it."

Because who gives a shit???

I finally had to tell MIL  that I don't care what anybody eats.  I said it nicely and in relation to a funny story (because I have vowed not to be an asshole), but I had to say something before my head exploded.

I know that some people do.  I dated a guy about 15 years ago who was always obsessing over what he was going to order at a restaurant that he wouldn't be going to for days.  His family was like this, too.  Every Sunday we all met for brunch at this diner in Atlanta, and every Saturday they would have extensive questions and discussions about what they were going to have.  At a diner.  Where they all ordered the same thing every time, anyway -- some form of eggs, toast, orange juice and coffee. 

But I really don't give a shit.  I'm not a big foodie.  I like cooking, but I'm not particularly interested in eating, and I don't think about food when I'm not hungry.  My children are fed at school, and the school is certified and properly licensed, and I generally peruse the menu schedule that is sent out every month, but beyond that, I don't really care.  They eat at school, they appear energetic and nobody shows signs of malnourishment, they're growing properly, so I assume everything is fine.  One less thing, you know?

I was complaining to my friend Andrea about the level of discourse in my house and how precipitously it has dropped since MIL arrived.  Much discussion about morning tea and the weather and all that, and not much else.  Quite honestly, I would rather not talk than talk about that stuff. 

She very gently pointed out that the household I grew up in was not normal in that regard.  "You are now discovering what it's like for the rest of us," she said.  "Not everyone grew up with witty, well-read diplomats for parents, with the discussion swirling around about foreign policy and cultural stuff."

"Hmmm, I guess I never thought of it that way," I said.

"Yeah.  You should hear the conversations I have with my dad.  This is what it's like for most people.  You just have no idea.  You were spoiled."

One more thing to blame on my parents?

Thursday Tidbits

The MIL chronicles are about to begin anew.  Long-time readers of this blog may remember when MIL and Pa came to visit us in Hawaii four years ago. 

MIL is arriving on Friday for another month-long visit.  Zeke hasn't seen her in four years, and Josie has never met her, so it will be nice for them to get to know their other grandmother.  And for J to spend time with his mother.

A month is a long time.  We do not have a big house (though we did create a guest room/office by moving Josie and Zeke into the same room, which they enjoy).  But at least I won't have a 92-year-old man sleeping on an air-mattress in my hallway this time, because Pa isn't coming for this trip (and I am not knocking Pa - he is a lovely man and I would welcome him). 

I have vowed not to be an asshole about this.  Everything will be fine.

-----------------------------

Josie's pink frilly dress phase appears to have been short-lived.  My mother and I spent a frenzied week loading up her closet with cute little dresses and skirts, which she happily wore until last week.  This week she has insisted upon wearing pants to school. 

I can't win.

-----------------------------

Yesterday after school J took the kids to Monkey Bizness.  While jumping around and playing, apparently some kid pushed and/or kicked Zeke in an effort to get him off of some piece of equipment.  Zeke went over to J, who told him that he hadn't seen what happened, but that Zeke would have to work it out with the kid.

Zeke went over to the kid, who was a lot bigger than Zeke, and shoved him hard on the shoulder, knocking him down onto his butt.  The kid left him alone for the rest of the night.

I'm not sure how I feel about this.

----------------------------

Another good month for my Beachbody business.  This month I gave myself a 60% raise over what I made in February, and am now covering one of the kids' daycare payments.  If you want in on this deal, let me know - it's incredibly fun and rewarding, not to mention lucrative.

Speaking of, I've got another challenge group starting April 16.  Celebrate getting your taxes filed by getting in shape for summer with a 60 day challenge.  In recent challenges, I've had people do so well that they not only lost tons of weight and felt great, but got off of thyroid and diabetes medication.  Pretty powerful stuff.

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Tomorrow is a flex day.  I was going to go skiing (even though we've had such a shitty winter, snow-wise, that conditions are not good at all), but told J that I would stay home with him and get the house immaculate for his mother's arrival if I could go on Saturday morning instead.  Deal.

Happy Thursday, all!

Snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails

My experience as the parent of young children is that much of it is an exercise in perseverance - trying to endure the difficulties of a particular time, waiting for things to get better.  And I don't mean this in a bad way - I love my children to pieces and I enjoy my time with them.  But the early years, especially with two of them, are stressful and exhausting (not to mention expensive). 

I don't find the experience of caring for newborns to be particularly rewarding, so when they're tiny little blobs, and their existence is made up of naps and feedings and diaper changes, you're waiting for them to get a little bit older and start smiling and cooing and sitting up. 

Then you're waiting for them to crawl. 

Then you're alarmed by the fact that they can crawl, because this means that they can get into your shit and you can't just stick them on a blanket on the floor, leave the room, and expect them to be in the same place when you come back 3 minutes later. 

But, life is about progress, so then it's the walking.  Which is exciting, but with walking comes constant vigilance and covering of electrical outlets and worrying about stairs and open doors and skinned knees. 

Or you're waiting for them to learn how to talk.  Or to use the potty.  Or to stop whining all the time.

And then they turn 4.  Or more accurately, 4 1/2, which, as far as I can tell based upon my own experience, as well as the input of my friends who have children, is the Greatest Age Ever.

Seriously, if I could bottle the essence of what Zeke is like right now, it would be a powerful inducement for people without kids to abandon efforts at birth control and hop on the procreation train.  Because he is so unbelievably awesome right now I can hardly believe it.

It came on kind of suddenly.  In October, he was going through this emotion stage during which his behavior at school was occasionally so severe that it prompted his teacher (who I really like and who I do not think is an alarmist quack) to suggest that he might require an evaluation to determine if he might be eligible for special education.  As a special education lawyer, I know enough about disabilities that I didn't think there was any basis for that level of concern, but still.  Not a fun thing to hear about your kid.

Then, all of a sudden, maybe around December or early January, everything changed.  His daily reports from school were not, "oh, he had an OK day," or "the day was mostly fine," but rather, "he had an amazingly awesomely perfect day."  "Great day."  "Wonderful day - played nicely, got a lollipop from the teacher for being a great helper, was sweet to the new kid in class." 

Since that change, whenever it was a few months ago, Zeke has not had a single day at school where the report wasn't glowing.

It's been the same at home.  Not that he hasn't had his moments here and there -- he's still a little kid after all -- but overwhelmingly, he has been sweet and affectionate and funny and hilarious.  Bedtimes have been less stressful.  He is incredibly kind and helpful with Josie, who is 2 1/2 and going through her own drama.

Like this morning, Josie was fussing about what to wear.*  She kept going back and forth between this dress and that dress and that t-shirt.  Then she was fussing because she wanted her baby.  Then she couldn't find her cup of milk.  Then she wanted to wear her dinosaur shoes, then she didn't want to wear them.  Basically, she was being a massive pain in the ass and making us all late for school and work.

Zeke could see that I was getting annoyed and that Josie was starting to cry.  So he stepped in to save the day.  "Hey, Josie, want to brick it?"  He held out his fist so they could share a terrorist fist jab.  She blinked through her tears at him for a minute, and then held up her little fist and bumped it with his.  He gave her a smile and she started to giggle, and they did it again a few more times and all was right with the world.

Later at school, she was standing in her classroom door, crying because she felt we hadn't given each other sufficient cheek kisses before I left her room to go say goodbye to Zeke (we have a very European ritual, with the cheek kisses on each side).  Zeke's class was in the hallway, lining up to wash their hands before breakfast.  He saw Josie crying, and went over to her, put his arm around her neck, and pulled her head to his shoulder.  She put her arm around him and gave him a hug, and he kissed her cheek before going back with his classroom.  "It's OK, Josie.  I'll come visit you later."

I about plotzed.

I have the kids' school pictures up on my Facebook profile, and I was online chatting with a friend about how resoundingly my NCAA bracket sucks, when I clicked on the picture of Zeke.  He's got the biggest freaking shit-eating grin on his face, like his head is about to explode from happiness.  And it made my heart skip a beat, because that picture?  That picture is exactly what is so wonderful about Zeke.  It totally sums up every part of his 4-1/2-year-old awesomeness.  His enthusiasm for life, his sweetness, his cheeky rascally nature (every other word out of his mouth is still "toot" or "poop" or "fart"), the goodness of his soul.  And that's the part that's so important to me, that gives me so much naches -- that he is genuinely a kind person.

I want to stop the movement of time and keep him at this age.  Like Superman did in the movie, when he made the earth turn backwards to save Lois Lane from dying in the ditch that her car fell into.  (And speaking of, we re-watched that movie recently because it's on streaming Netflix. I had fond memories of it, but it is a seriously cheesy piece of shit -- it was very disappointing.  But I digress.) 

With Zeke, I don't have that feeling that I'm so used to having, of "Jesus, can we just get through the Terrible Twos?" or "is he ever going to be toilet trained?" or "does he have an emotional disability?"  I want him to stay the way he is, for at least a little while, because he's so, so great right now.

But of course, he could get even better, so I guess I should welcome the passage of time.

In any event, he's a keeper.**



___________________
* The "pink dresses only" dealio lasted about a week and a half (long enough for her grandmother and me to load up her closet with frilly dresses), and now it's hit or miss. Two days ago, it was a pink dress. Yesterday, it was a pair of leggings and a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. Today, it was another pink dress, and a pink shrug because she was chilly.

** And so is his sister.  She just has the disadvantage of going through the Terrible Twos when Zeke is at the Greatest Age Ever, so she's suffering by comparison.  But she's still an adorable, funny little monkey and I love her like crazy.

Sugar and spice and everything nice

Josie has probably worn a dress 2 or 3 times in her entire life.  I think dresses on little babies that aren't even sitting up or are still crawling are kind of silly, because the end result is this big wad of fabric up around the baby's armpits and either skinned knees or ripped tights from crawling.  So she never wore them as a baby.

Then at some point last year, I had a pair of cute winter tights that someone had given her, so I was getting her ready for school and put her in a little jumper and some tights.  She was so incensed she practically ripped my face off, and immediately started pulling off the tights and tugging at the dress like I had tried to put her in a straitjacket.

I figured, great, that's one less item of clothing that I have to worry about buying.  Plus she's such a tough little monkey, having her wear jeans and leggings and t-shirts kind of fit the tom-boyish vision I have of her in my head. 

My mother, however, was deeply dismayed.  There are few things she enjoys more than buying cute clothes for her grandchildren, and the "no dresses" dealio severely limited her efforts.

Anyhoo, Josie's standard uniform is a pair of jeans (skinny or straight leg) or leggings, with a short sleeve t-shirt over a long-sleeve t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers.  That's what I put her in this morning.

Then as I was puttering around drinking my morning smoothie and getting Zeke ready for school, I noticed that Jo had taken one of her little toddler-bed-sized fitted sheets and was draping it around herself. 

"I'm a girl, Mama!"

"You are a girl.  And is that your pretty dress?"

"Yes, I wear a dress!"

"Well, you look very nice.  That's a beautiful dress."

She twirled and pranced around.

When it was time to go, I took the sheet from her and started to fold it up to put it back in the laundry basket.

Josie lost her shit.  She cried and cried and cried.

"I want my dress! I want to be a girl!"

A light bulb went on over my head.  I kneeled down and gave her a hug and a kiss.

"Honey, do you want to wear a dress to school?"

"Yeeeesss..."  she sobbed on my shoulder.

"OK, then.  Let's go find you a dress!"

Luckily, I had a couple hanging in her closet that were the right size (I'm assuming they were gifts that people had sent or hand-me-downs from friends, because God knows I didn't buy them).  She was wearing a pair of dusty pink skinny jeans and a light pink long-sleeved t-shirt, so I found a cute little pink dress with butterflies on it and put it on over what she was wearing.


She's still recovering from the trauma at this point and wiping away tears, but the beginnings of a smile are starting to show.  Plus the light in the hallway is bad and she rarely stands still long enough to snap a picture that isn't blurry, so this was the best I could do.

The transformation in her appearance and her demeanor was immediate.  Suddenly she just looked so pretty to me (not that I don't think she's gorgeous, but she looked girly-pretty), and she was so, so happy.  She kept twirling and checking herself out in the mirror and grinning from ear to ear, saying, "I'm wearing a dress!"

"Well, let's get you to school so you can show all your friends your pretty dress!"

When I told Jessica, her teacher, about it, she said that Josie has been playing a lot of dress-up lately, and saying that "she wants to be a girl" and wear a dress.  So I guess that's where we're headed.

Which is fine with me.  Maybe she'll even let me do something with her hair.

And of course, my mother is thrilled.

I'm actually not too dismayed by this limitation in their career prospects

My kids are lovely, sweet and relatively well-behaved.  But bedtime remains a struggle.  Josie will go to sleep at a reasonable hour, about 8:30 or so, but getting Zeke to bed is not an easy task. 

I think much of the problem is that his circadian rhythms naturally skew late, just as mine do (and my dad's, for that matter).  I vividly remember being a little kid and wondering why I should go to bed at 8 or 8:30 when I wasn't remotely tired then.  Luckily, my parents were pretty lenient about it, and let me stay up as long as I was chilling out and reading or listening to music in my room.  My dad tells me that he used to stay up reading until midnight as a young child, and never understood the point of being forced to go to bed before he was ready.  So I think Zeke comes by it honestly.

And it's even worse when he's excited about something. 

This past weekend my parents came to visit.  And the kids adore Mimi and Papa.  They've been talking about and anticipating it for weeks. 

Their visit did not disappoint.

On Friday night, they both had a sleepover with my folks at their hotel.  My parents both fell asleep before Zeke and Josie did, but luckily no significant damage was done.  When they woke up, they found the doors covered with stickers, but in the grand scheme of things, no big deal.

The four of them also hung out Saturday morning while J and I had a ski day together.  Super fun, plus I don't even remember the last time J and I had a day on  the mountain together.  The rest of the day we hung out, they went to the bookstore, went for walks, played, bounced on the beds.  And still, Zeke and Josie didn't go to bed before 9.  When they did, they passed out like they had been on a bender, but it was still an effort to convince them that they actually needed to sleep and that Mimi and Papa would still be here when they woke up.

Sunday we went to Jump Street, a local indoor trampoline park.  The kids bounced nonstop for an hour and a half.  Josie napped when we got home, but Zeke couldn't bring himself to lie down and potentially miss something.  That night we had good friends over for dinner, and the children ran around and played chase and stayed up as long as they could, because Mimi and Papa would be leaving early the next morning.

Yesterday I was home with the kids for President's Day.  We went to the indoor pool and swam for 2 hours.  At home, we played and bounced on the beds and played monster tag and built trains.  They still went to bed late.

The nice thing is, they sleep later than most kids do.  Our friends who have young kids all complain that their kids are always up and rousting them out of bed by 6 in the morning. 

That doesn't happen in our house.

The children had another day off today (teacher inservice day), so J stayed home with them and I went to work.  We were hanging out in the kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting, at about 7:30 this morning.  Both kids were still sound asleep.

"Well, we know that our kids will never have jobs working in a coffee shop," J observed.

"Why not?"  I asked.

"Because they open at 5:00 a.m."

Go shawty, it's your birthday, we gonna party like it's .... well, your ordinary Wednesday night, actually.

Zeke and I were talking last night as I lay with him at bedtime.  I said, "you know what?  Only three more sleeps until Mimi and Papa come!"

"Only three?  That's so cool!" he said.

"And you know what else?  You know what day tomorrow is?"

"What?"

"It's my birthday."

"It's your birthday?"

"Uh-huh."

Suddenly he sat up.  "What day is it tomorrow?  Is it a school day tomorrow?"

"It's Wednesday.  It's a school day."

"But I don't want to go to school!  I want to go to your birthday!"

He was very upset.

Because to him, all birthdays involve big outings to museums or trampoline parks and parties with cake and ice cream and goodie bags.  And he didn't want to miss out.

"Honey, you're not going to miss anything.  I have to go to work and you have to go to school, so maybe we can do something after school.  Would you like to bake a cake with me?  We can have birthday cake and blow out candles."

"Can I eat the cake?"

"Sure."

"OK."

So I'm 42 today.  And I'm not having a big party with trampolines and balloons or anything, but I'm having a lovely day nonetheless.  I have received over 80 emails and/or Facebook messages wishing me a happy birthday.  My friend and co-worker took me out to lunch.  Zeke and Josie and I will make cake tonight.

And I'm doing the little things that I love and routinely do on my birthday.  I'm wearing a snazzy amethyst cocktail ring that belonged to my Grandma Ruth - it's my birthstone and it makes me feel closer to her.

My mom and I had our annual telephone conversation in which she told me about the day I was born.  My dad and I talked about it as well, and he told me how much he loves me and how he's been over the moon for me since the day I was born.  My children were sweet and relatively compliant this morning, and J called to wish me a happy birthday and, as an added bonus, told me about how he pulled a woman from her truck this morning after she lost control and it flipped on the highway and landed upside down.  She was miraculously unharmed, but understandably freaking out and couldn't take off her seat belt or get out of the upside-down truck, so he crawled in, got her out, and carried her to his van and waited with her until the rescue vehicles came.  My husband, the hero.

And life feels very, very good.  Work (my 9-5 job) is going great.  My Beachbody business is going great and is so much more fun and rewarding than I ever would have thought possible - tomorrow I will advance in rank in the company and I'm making more money every month.  My kids are healthy and happy.  J and I are healthy and happy.  Both physically and emotionally, I feel kind of awesome (and loving the juicing, by the way!).

Life always has its crests and troughs.  Right now feels like a crest. 

Even without a big birthday party.

Thursday Tidbits

• We got a juicer.  

Over the weekend, J and I were chilling out on the couch and started watching Sick, Fat and Nearly Dead, a documentary about Joe, an Australian guy who goes on a 60-day juice fast when he finally reaches a breaking point with his shitty health - he was 300 pounds, exhausted, and had some sort of auto-immune skin disease that caused him to break out in itchy rashes all the time.  He films himself doing the fast as he travels across the U.S. talking to people about health and healthy eating, and by the end of the fast, he's lost a shit-ton of weight (something like 90 pounds), feels amazing, and has been taken off all the prednisone he was on for his disease because he's no longer having flare-ups.  Along the way, he meets Phil, a truck-driver who weighs 420 pounds and is a cheeseburger away from a heart-attack, and Phil is inspired and decides to follow Joe's lead and starts his own juice fast and healthy living plan (all of this is under the supervision of a doctor).  By the end of the movie, he's lost almost 180 pounds and his life is transformed.

I eat this stuff up.  My fitness business is all about getting people to just *start* living healthier, and take it a day at a time.  So I was truly verklempt watching Phil's transformation, and J and I were so inspired by the whole thing (plus, we're totally lemmings) that I had gone onto Amazon.com and ordered a juicer before the movie was even over.  Neither of us needs to go on a 60 day juice fast, but we're going to work homemade fruit and veggie juices into our diets, and do 3-5 day juice fasts on a regular basis, maybe once a month or so.  We signed up for a CSA delivery that starts on Monday, and I'm off to the grocery store with a list that includes kale, beets, ginger root, celery, apples, and all kinds of other stuff that we'll be juicing.

And yes, I know I'm a geek. 

• Josie has hit the Terrible Twos. 

Zeke never really went through the Terrible Twos.  His were more the Terrible Threes.  So when Josie suddenly went from being a sweet, agreeable little monkey to a whiny, bossy asshole, we were a bit taken aback. 

In her defense, she's not an asshole all the time.  Just a lot of the time.  Fussing, bitching, throwing things, crying over nothing.  But, it'll pass.  Zeke, conversely, went from being a moody asshole to an absolute delight (except for the constant poop and fart talk, but I'll deal).  I guess it's the universe's way of balancing things out.

• Zeke is headed to big-boy school (sort of).

I submitted Zeke's application for pre-kindergarten a couple of weeks ago (he'll be 5 this year, but because his birthday is after the October 1 cut-off, he'll start kindergarten when he's nearly 6).  I look at him and he's not a baby or even a toddler.  He's a kid. 

I don't understand how this happened.

• The light at the end of the tunnel.

The move from Hawaii put us in a HUGE financial hole.  Huge.  I had to cash out a 401(K), then I fucked up the taxes on it so we were slammed with a $10K tax bill 2 years ago.  Our tenants in our Hawaii house then abandoned their lease early, so we had to stop paying the mortgage 14 months ago.  We're trying to get rid of the house in a short sale, but we've been under contract twice and twice the buyers have walked away for various and sundry reasons.  I'm hopeful that third time will be the charm (and that we'll manage to close before the HOA forecloses as they've been threatening to do).  Plus we've had (and still have) about $2K a month in daycare expenses, J had hernia surgery then lost his job, one of our cars kept breaking down, our pipes froze last winter, the A/C broke in the summer, etcetera etcetera.

But.  The huge weight I've felt in my chest is starting to lighten.  Last year's tax refund paid off the previous year's deficit, and this year's we actually get to keep!  And we're selling one of the cars.  And my Beachbody business is starting to earn me some real money (not enough to quit my job - yet - but enough that it can make a difference in our lives and our financial stability)*.  So we'll be able to pay off two loans altogether, and start paying down another debt, and maybe actually start to save a little bit. 

It's so nice to have a little bit of relief after feeling for over 3 years that we were drowning.

• Vegas, baby.

I'm going to Vegas in June for Beachbody's big annual coach's convention.  The money I'm making from the business allows me to afford the trip.  I will be rooming with my friend Ferreh, who is hilarious.  If she and I lived in the same city, we would get in a lot of trouble together.  And I've never been to Vegas. 

Can. Not. Wait.

I've got a flex day tomorrow, so I will be hitting the slopes on my new skis.  Have a good weekend, all!

*Seriously - if you're unemployed, underemployed, looking for a side gig to provide some extra cash flow, email me.  Not only is there money to be made, but it is so much fun to help people get healthy. 

Economy of language

Every night, I put Josie in her bed and I sit in a little chair next to it and read her stories.  Lately The Snowy Day and Llama Llama Misses Mama have been in heavy rotation.

The Snowy Day is one of my all-time favorites.  I read it to my children a lot, and every time I do, I find it magical.  I never get tired of it.  I love the illustrations, the way the book conveys the beauty and wonder a child finds in heading out to play in the snow, and the simplicity of the language.  (Plus, it's very free-range -- Peter lives in the city and goes out to play all day long by himself, though he's obviously fairly young -- too young for snowball fights with the big boys, after all).

Well, Josie may have one up on Ezra Jack Keats in the simplicity department.  Lately she has taken to reading the books to me ("Mama, I read it!").  This is The Snowy Day, Josie-fied.

"There's a boy.  And he's outside and there's LOTS of snow!"

"Crunch crunch crunch! He walk in the snow with his toes."

"Whee!  He goes down a hill!"

"There's his mother!"

"Night Night!  The end."

She slams the book shut.

"Song, mama?"

I turn off the light and sing.

Everybody's got a random

Sometimes in maintaining a blog, I get too into the notion of themes -- of telling stories that have some overriding point, or of depicting life in a way that betrays some grand plan. Because it makes for more interesting writing (and reading).

But truthfully, I think that's all bullshit.  Most of life is totally random.

Like the other day I was on the bus coming home from work.  Sitting across the aisle from me was this huge guy that looked a bit vagrant-ish.  Not quite homeless, but certainly someone who has seen brighter days.  I got the sense that he spent a lot of time riding the bus and striking up conversation with people, just to pass the time.

Which, whatever, ya know?  More power to him, I guess.

Except that I am not one for idle conversation with strangers.

Every once in a while the planets will align and I will enter into a conversation on a plane or whereever with a seatmate, and it will be genuinely interesting.  But this is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and not something that I actively seek out.

So this guy across from me on the bus has been bothering some poor guy who was in a Navy uniform, so Almost Homeless Dude starts in with the, "oh, you're a Navy man, eh?  Did you know [some obscure fact about the Navy that may or may not have been true, but was a way to ingratiate himself with the dude in the uniform] blah blah blah." Navy Guy humored him for a while, but finally reached his stop and practically flung himself off the bus, he was so overtly happy to be free of Almost Homeless Dude's conversational stylings.

I could practically feel Almost Homeless Dude searching around for some new shlub to talk to.  And eventually he settled on me.

I stared straight ahead, and then was stunned to be smacked across the face with a scarf, which Almost Homeless Dude had flicked at me, like a 10th grade boy smacking ass in the communal shower after gym class, in an effort to get my attention.

I whipped my head around and glared at him.  He sort of chuckled and said, "oh, I'm so sorry," as if it had been an accident.  I frowned.  He tried to talk to me, saying things like, "oh, I see your ID badge, where do you work?" but I grunted one-word answers until I reached my stop and got off the bus.

And there isn't any grand point to this story. It's just an example of a random encounter that is a part of commuting on public transportation.  One that I would never remember, if I didn't record it for posterity here  on the internet.

And the day had been sort of random like that.  I spent the day going from meeting to meeting, never quite getting my bearings with a big project -- just small encounters and questions that were unrelated.  I felt kind of disjointed and off-kilter all day.

The day ended randomly as well.

I was lying in bed with Zeke, snuggling with him to help him get to sleep.  He had been quiet for awhile, so I thought he was settling down and falling asleep.  But I should have known better.  My mother once remarked that when she thinks about Zeke she's reminded of those machines that measure brain activity -- the red areas show areas of heightened cerebral activity.  She envisions Zeke's brain as all red, firing on all cylinders at all times.

I don't disagree.

We were lying there in the dark, quiet and cozy.  Suddenly, he lifted his head and exclaimed, "Mama!"  He sounded very excited.

"What is it, honey?" I asked.

"Mama!  Have you ever heard of the number 139?"

I chuckled.  "Yes, I have heard of that number."

"You have??"  He seemed incredulous.

"Yes.  I've pretty much heard of all the numbers."

"Oh."  He sounded skeptical.

He put his head back down on the pillow, his little brain continuing to fire away.  I put an arm over him and pulled him close.

Eventually we both fell asleep.

Me love you long time

Let me start by saying that my mother is a highly intelligent, sophisticated, worldly individual.  She is extremely well read and has traveled all over the world.  I would never describe her as naive or sheltered.

Which makes this story that much funnier.

She's been away on business the past few weeks, traveling in China, Vietnam and Cambodia (there might be other places, but I don't remember). Mostly she worked, but from time to time she and her coworkers had a few hours here and there to do some shopping and sample the local culture.\

She arrived home and immediately called me. We usually speak on the phone at LEAST once a day, and we had only a brief 5 minute chat the entire 2 weeks she was gone, so we were jonesing for that mother-daughter connection. She was telling me about how the trip went, some random friend of my dad's that she ran into in the hotel restaurant in Cambodia, and the various tchotchkes she bought for the kids.

"Oh, and I got the cutest t-shirt in Beijing!"

"Oh, yeah? What does it look like?" I asked.

"It says 'I love BJ' on it, you know, with a heart. In honor of your dad."

Before your head explodes, let me clarify that my father's initials are "B.J."

"You bought a shirt that says 'I love BJ' on it?"

"Yeah, you know, 'BJ' for Beijing. Only really for your dad." She sounded very cute and proud. It made me sad to have to break it to her.

"Mom, if you wear that shirt in the United States, do you realize what people are going to think it means?"

"What? Uh-oh." Her voice took on a somber tone.

"'I love blow-jobs.'"

"Oh, no! Really? Come on!"

"Really."

"Dammit!"

"Yeah. But hey, you would have been really popular if you had worn it out in public!"

"That's really what it means?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Shit. I guess I'll just use it as a sleep shirt."

I think that would be best for everyone involved.

Or maybe I'll just get my dad one of those super-classy "Free Mustache Rides" shirts, and set them both loose on society.

Give me an earworm, toot suite!

There's a lot of talk about tooting in my house.  We're all quite adept at it, and we all think it's funny.

Immature, yes.  But funny.

"Mama, I tooted," is uttered by one or both of the children multiple times a day, followed by giggles and exclamations of "that stinks!" from the non-perpetrator.  I generally join in the giggles.  And I've discovered that a sure-fire way to get my kids to pay attention and mind me in the morning is to talk in an accent like Borat's.  I get far fewer objections and grumbles from them if, instead of saying, "come ON, for the fiftieth time, PUT ON YOUR UNDERPANTS!" I say, in a silly accent, "Come on-a, now, Meester Zeke, we need to put on your-a underpants (pronounced, AHN-dare-ponts), we need to-a cover up a-your tooty-booty."

Go ahead.  Say "tooty-booty" in a vaguely Eastern-European-mixed-with-Father-Guido-Sarducci accent.  It's fucking hilarious.  The children giggle their butts off -- and are amazingly compliant.

So there's this song by Breathe Carolina, a local Denver band, that has received quite a bit of airplay in these parts.  I have no idea if it's popular elsewhere in the country, but their song Blackout is on, like, all the time.  And it's kind of catchy.

I spend virtually no time in the car, save for the 4 minute drives to drop the kids at school and then go back home to catch my bus.  So I'm not really up on what's on the radio.  But J does a fair bit of driving and generally pays more attention to what's on the radio than I do, so he's up on what the kids are listening to.*  And one day when after he picked the kids up from school, they were driving around and Blackout came on the radio.  It has a chorus that goes like this:

I’m only getting started, I won't blackout
This time I got nothing to waste
Let’s go a little harder
I’m on fire, I won't blackout
I’m on my way

So J, being J, cleverly replaced the lyrics thusly:

I think that Josie farted, she backed one out
It smells like poop in here
I think that Josie farted
She farted, it came out of her butt
We've gotta get away...

They proceeded to sing this for the next 30 minutes.  They gleefully told me about it when they got home, and taught me the song as well.

It has now become something of a family anthem.  When we hear the song on the radio, we automatically replace the lyrics.  Quite honestly, I prefer them to whatever they're saying in the song. 

The kids have even started singing it when they toot.  The other day Josie was in another room.

"Mama!"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I tooted, Mama!"

"That's wonderful, honey."

Then she starts singing.  "I think Josie farted, she back one out, it smells like poop in here...*giggle giggle*"

That's my girl.

For your listening pleasure...and by all means, sing along and change it to the toot version.  It's much more fun.


_________________________________________________________
*Not our kids, necessarily, just kids generally.

The Real World: Colorado

This is the true story...of 4 people (well, mostly 3 of them) in a family...are forced to spend time together, all day, every day, for 10 days...here's what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting real.

[Various shots of Denver in rapid sequence, finally settling on a crooked shot of a dilapidated Victorian in Congress Park.  LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem plays over the sequence]

Day 1:  Everyone is happy and in a good mood.  Whee!  We're on vacation!  We're heading to the mountains to see our cousins!  We've never been to Carbondale!  It's pretty! Yaaay!

Three hour car ride proceeds uneventfully.  Kids sleep through much of it.  We admire the scenery driving through Glenwood Canyon.

We arrive at the cousins' house, and Zeke and Josie reunite with the cousins' 2-year-old and everyone plays and has fun.  We go for a walk down by the river.  The children throw rocks and run around.  We have the traditional Jewish Christmas eve dinner of Chinese food.  Cousins are alarmed by how much J eats.  "Welcome to my world," I tell them.

Cousins are slightly horrified by my childrens' bedtime habits, or lack thereof.  Their kid goes to bed at 7:30.  Our kids are still up and partying like rock stars at 9.  I make them go to bed and we watch Bridesmaids.  Josie and Zeke keep popping out of the room to try to join us.  We finally get them to settle down.

[Shots of mountains, the town of Carbondale, and Aspen, especially women in ugly fur coats, leggings and boots, and horrifying plastic surgery.  Pink's Stupid Girls plays.]

Mt. Sopris.  Pretty.

Day 2:  Christmas Day.  As Jews, we do nothing to commemorate the holiday except to say, "hey, it's Christmas! Merry Christmas!" and then go about our day.  The children play nicely.  The guys take the kids into Aspen to go to a park.  Cousin and I get some quiet time (she's 7 1/2 months pregnant and could use the rest).  I exercise.  We drive into Aspen to meet everyone.

Josie is fussy.  Zeke is obnoxious.  The guys seem harried.  Aspen is vulgar.  We go to lunch at a diner.  We manage to contain the children long enough to scarf down a turkey reuben (me) and a club sandwich (cousin).  The guys go skiing/snowboarding, and we take the kids home.  Cousin's kid naps.  Mine don't.

We walk by the river again.  Kids play and wear themselves out, but the lack of naps means they are acting like assholes much of the time.  We light Hannukah candles.  We make lasagna for dinner.  It is yummy.  Zeke proclaims it to be the best thing he's ever eaten.  Everyone is, again, astonished by J's ability to inhale ridiculous amounts of food.  "Tell me about it," I say.

Bedtime.  Cousin's kid passes out at 7:15 without a fuss.  At 8:00, Zeke proceeds to have a total meltdown.  He loses his shit.  I lie down with him to try to calm him down and we all fall asleep at 8:30.

[Shots of kids sleeping, then slowly waking up.  Shots of toys all over the floor.  More mountain shots.  Chorus of Rocky Mountain High plays.]

Day 3:  Everyone wakes up happy, having gotten lots of sleep.  The children play nicely together.  Zeke tells his little cousin, "you're a really nice baby!"  Josie pushes her doll stroller around.  I take Zeke down by the river again so he can throw rocks and sticks.  He digs this.  We see a bald eagle flying around, which is really cool.

We pack up the car and head home.  I can tell the cousins are happy to be rid of us and our noise.

The kids sleep on the drive home.  The rest of the day we chill out, unpack, watch movies. 

So far, so good, mostly.  But the true test starts tomorrow, when J goes back to work.

[Shots of traffic on Colorado Boulevard, people walking in and out of the coffee shop on 12th Avenue, finally settling on the crooked shot of the dilapidated Victorian.  Drake's Unstoppable plays.]

Day 4:  Everyone sleeps in.  We get up, have some breakfast, and watch some Pink Panther episodes on Netflix.  We don't have diddly in the fridge, so I load the kids into the car and we go to Target to go grocery shopping.  Josie sits in the seat part of the grocery cart, Zeke sits in the basket because all of the double-kid-seat carts are taken.  He is remarkably good natured as I proceed to bury him in groceries, no doubt helped by the fact that I buy his cooperation with animal crackers and little mini boxes of goldfish.  And a new box of crayons. 

We head home and have lunch, then the kids are sent to their rooms for quiet time.  Josie naps, Zeke hangs out on his bed and plays Angry Bird on his new Kindle Fire (a present from my mother -- doesn't every 4-year-old need one?), and I exercise.  The day is going well.

Later we color and play with trains, then a friend of Zeke's stops by and invites us to go sledding, so we put on our snow gear and head out to the sledding hill.

We go home and light the Hannukah candles -- it's the 8th night so the menorah is full and beautiful.

Everyone is happy.  I feel like a success as a mother.

Day 5:  I've still got some tricks up my sleeve.  We go to the indoor community pool, the one with the big water slide.  Josie, who thinks she can swim even though she really can't, requires all of my attention, so Zeke ends up swimming much more independently than I would otherwise be comfortable with.  He ends up going down the big water slide by himself a number of times and then swimming to the side of the pool alone - the first time he has ever done this.

We make it out of the rec center without anyone drowning.

[Neighborhood footage.  Overcast skies.  Eminem's Things Get Worse plays.]

Day 6: The wheels start to fall off the wagon.  Everyone is getting tired of being around everyone else.  I try to rally the kids to do something -- anything -- but no one will get dressed and everyone is whining and no one wants to do much but lie around, watch TV, play on the Kindle and make a mess.

Both children are going through very bossy phases, particularly towards each other.  At one point, Zeke is annoyed with Josie because he keeps telling her to do something and she won't.

"You're not her boss, Zeke.  She doesn't have to do what you want.  Stop ordering her around," I tell him.

"Go away, Zekey. Leave me alone," Josie says.

"Josie, stop telling people what to do!" Zeke yells.

He clearly has an under-developed sense of irony.

By late in the afternoon, I'm losing it.  I'm supposed to go to a retirement party for a coworker, but J gets called out on an emergency job so I have to stay home with the kids.  The one thing that I'm clinging to is J's promise to take the kids to Jump Street when he gets home so I can have my weekly banjo lesson without the monkeys interrupting me.

He walks in at 5:45.  "Oh, man, I guess it's too late for Jump Street," he laments.

"Nooooo!  Please! You have to take them out of here!"  I'm practically in tears.

He does me a solid and hustles the kids out the door in under 15 minutes.  I have a good lesson and I get some peace.

I'm all Scarlett O'Hara, thinking, "tomorrow is another day."

[Shots of cultural points around Denver - the zoo, City Park, Mile High Stadium, the Museum of Science and Nature. Howard Jones's Things Can Only Get Better plays.]

Day 7:  Determined to avoid the disaster of the previous day, as soon as the kids are up and fed, I hustle them off to the science museum.  We go see the real dinosaur exhibit, then look at the wild animal dioramas, then we go to the kids' center.  They run around and play hard for 3 hours, then go home for lunch and a rest. J gets off work early, and my time as a stay-at-home mom officially comes to an end.

That night, one of the daycare teachers comes over to babysit and J and I go see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  It's really great (the movie, too!).

Day 8:  I had been planning to take a solo ski day, but the weather is shitty -- crazy gale force winds that end up forcing most of the ski resorts to close their lifts -- plus my uncle and his family are in town and invite us to have lunch with them at the Four Seasons.  We take the kids and manage to eat and get out of the hotel without anyone getting injured or summoning the fire brigade.

That night it's New Year's Eve.  We had been planning to go up to Frisco for the weekend to stay in a friend's condo, but the condo is under renovation so we can't use it.  We go over and visit some friends in the neighborhood around dinner time, but go home at 7:30.  J and I are asleep by 10:30.  Woop-dee-freakin'-doo.

We do, however, manage to take a picture of us kissing for the cover of our 2011 yearbook.  Every year since we've been married, we have made a yearbook and the cover shot has always been one of us kissing. This year, we had never taken a kissing shot, so we got it in under the wire.

[Interior shots of a messy house.  Toys on the floor. Crumbs on the floor. Garbage pails needing to be changed.  Matchbox 20's How Far We've Come plays.]

Day 9:  Another write-off of a day.  Nobody has slept well.  Everyone is tired and grumpy.  I try to clean the house.  I spend all day cleaning, and every time I turn around, a child is making a mess behind me.  Even when they're ostensibly trying to help.  I clean the kitchen 3 times and it's still a mess.

I manage to get out of the house to pick up my new skis, which have been in the shop getting bindings put on.  Come hell or high water, I am taking a ski day before going back to work.

[Shots of the Rocky Mountains and cars driving on the highway in the early morning.  The end of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech, where he says, "free at last" is playing in a voice-over.]

Day 10:  I leave the house by 6 and get to Copper Mountain by 8.  I have a cup of coffee and head out to the lift when it opens.  I proceed to ski my ass off for the next 3 1/2 hours.  The lift lines are non-existent and I rarely stop to rest, so I'm just going up and down and up and down the mountain.  My new skis are awesome.  I'm flying.

Heading up the Super Bee lift.

My legs turn to jelly by around 12:45, so I head back to the car and go home.

I'm happy to see my children again.  We go for walks and watch football and get to bed early, ready to begin the new year in earnest.

[Shot of the kids under closing credits.  Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World plays.]

Join me in getting my butt in gear (and smaller)

One of the things I'm been trying to build my coaching business around is the concept of motivation - how to help people form healthy exercise and nutrition habits and to stay motivated to stick with them.  I go through periods of struggling with motivation as much as the next person.  My "down" periods tend to coincide with my depression cycles, so they're actually more difficult to battle because they're so chemically based.  But at least I'm at the point of being able to recognize how I'm feeling, and I've developed strategies to help me push through the depression until the cycle passes.

Something that seems to help is to be very short-term-goal oriented.  And I think people generally respond well to short-term challenges, so I've been putting together regular fitness challenges, every month or so, to help people focus on reaching their fitness goals.  Some of them I participate in, others I just guide.

The next big one is one that I'm going to be doing along with my challengers - a 90 day New Year's resolution challenge involving a fitness program and replacing one meal a day with Shakeology.  I've already filled up one challenge group of five participants, and I've got a couple of others on a waiting list -- if I get a few more, I'll do a second group.

I'm going to be doing P90X2.  It's the follow up to P90X, and it's based on training techniques that the pros use - core and pelvic stability exercises, developing agility and explosive power.  Becoming not just stronger and leaner, but a better athlete, with better range of motion and greater protection against injury.  I figure it will help me become a better skier.  Plus it's always fun to try a new program.

So I'm putting the word out here as well as on my coaching blog -- is one of your New Year's resolutions to get in shape?  Would you like to give it a shot with the benefits of a structured program, a group of like-minded people encouraging and supporting you, and a coach (i.e., me) guiding the way? It's a proven formula -- everyone knows that exercise and proper eating are the keys to fitness, but what people don't often realize is that having the support of peers is equally important.  People to cheer your triumphs, encourage you when you're feeling unmotivated, support you when you need a lift.

If you're ready to give it a shot (and really, if you don't do it now, when will you?), let me know.  I would love to help you succeed.

You can't have everything... where would you put it?*

We've reached that time of year when I'm hyper-aware of being different from the rest of society.

Not because I'm Jewish and I don't celebrate Christmas.  I got over that a long time ago.  In fact, I'm not sure it ever really bothered me at all. 

No, it's because I hate the whole focus on buying shit and giving gifts. 

Honestly, the last thing most of us need is more stuff. 

I don't need chocolate or candies or baked goods wrapped up in celophane.  I appreciate people's thoughtfulness, but I don't eat it.  It goes in the office breakroom or in the trash. 

I don't need tchotchkes or jewelry.  I don't wear jewelry.  I don't put out tchochkes (with a few exceptions -- love my Romanian pottery, mom!). 

My children don't need more toys or electronics.  (Clothes are a different story - they grow like weeds).  They already have obscene quantities of *things* and they barely play with the stuff they have.  Most of their toys end up with missing pieces or sit languishing in the bottom of a box. 

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not an ascetic.  I like nice things and I am actively trying to grow a business so I can make more money.  I'd like a newer car.  Nothing flashy, but something that is newer than 11 years old (we don't have a car newer than that), so I'm not always waiting for the next thing to break and cost me a shit-ton on repairs.  I'd like to be able to replace the windows on my house, because the old ones are ancient and barely functional.  I'd like to get out of debt.

But the main thing I want is more time.  More freedom.   Time to read, time to practice my banjo, time to ski, time to spend with my children and my friends and my family.  Freedom to travel or take classes or volunteer.  I'm getting there, bit by bit, day by day.  Not there yet, but I will be.

On that note, Happy Hannukah, all!  I wish you health and happiness and joy and love and music and dancing and fun.  Not so much on more stuff.

What about you? Do you get into the holiday gift-giving spirit, or are you a scrooge like me? 

*This quote is from the comedian Stephen Wright.

Talk to me so you can see, oh, what's going on...

"Hello... [tap tap tap] ... is this thing on?"

It's been a weird month or so.  For a while I felt very fragmented and unfocused, largely because of depression cycle that I went through.  But I powered through it and it passed, followed by a period of great clarity.

was 

Like Thorough at Walden Pond, I'm trying to live deliberately.  Which is great, in terms of my desire to focus on my goals and tackle them, and in particular build my coaching business.

But kind of boring in terms of any interesting resulting blog posts.  I go through periods when every little thing that happens to me brings to mind a funny (I hope) or engaging way to tell a funny story in this space I'm occupying here.  But right now is not one of those periods.  

I did have a kickass ski day up at Copper Mountain last Friday.  I was 10 minutes away from the mountain when I realized I had forgotten my ski boots.  

"Fuck it, I guess I'm renting today."

Then I thought about the fact that my skis are 8 or 9 years old -- dinosaurs, in terms of the advances that have been made in ski design and technology lately.  "Hell, if I'm going to rent, I might as well demo some new skis and see what all the fuss is about."

So the nice young hippie working at the ski shop fitted me out in a pair of brand new K2 Superburnins.  And I proceeded to have the time of my life, while realizing what the fuss is indeed all about.

It's about precision and control.  

I am a good athlete, and I am a decent skier, particularly given that I didn't learn how to do it until I was 28.  And what I really like to do is go really fast down steep inclines.  But I've always felt that notwithstanding my willingness to let myself fall down the mountain the way I do, I haven't been exactly safe -- I've had the sense of skirting a very fine line between fast, fun skiing and crashing horribly out of control.  

No longer.  On these skis, I was still really fast, but totally in control and carving turns in a way I've never been able to before.  It was a totally different skiing experience.

I obsessed about the skis all day Saturday, doing Google searches and finding last year's model (which is essentially the same ski) for sale at a number of different places.  Including one retailer in Seattle that was having a close-out on the skis in my size, which I guess isn't that popular a seller because I'm such a shrimp.  What started out as a $850 pair of skis was eventually marked down to $370, by the time they took all the discounts at checkout.

So I bought them.  

And was able to afford them because of my new-found focus on building my coaching business.  I'm really, really determined to grow it to the point that in two years, I will be able to pay off all debts, fix up my million-year-old house, and no longer have to work full time if I don't want to.  I've signed a bunch of new coaches recently and am very excited about helping them build *their* businesses so they can achieve their goals as well.  It's pretty cool.  And it's working - every month I earn more than the previous month, so I'm chipping away at my target, bit by bit.

You can read more about it here.

So that's what's going on with me lately.

Six years ago today...

According to the interwebs, the traditional 6th anniversary gift is candy or iron.  Random. 

Or perhaps not.  Because after 6 years, marriage can be sweet, or it can be very, very hard.  Or both.