Guest Blog: It Ain't Just About Fitting Into Your Skinny Jeans

I received an email this morning from a guy who found my fitness blog and was interested in guest-posting an article about the importance and benefits of physical fitness for cancer patients (or cancer survivors).  I think it's an incredibly important message, so I decided to post the article on this blog as well.  I've had so many acquaintances, friends and relatives suffer with or die of cancer lately, it's a subject that is very much on my mind these days.

Physical Fitness and Cancer
                   ~ by David Haas
Almost everyone can improve his or her life with a moderate, consistent physical fitness program. The physiological and psychological benefits from physical fitness simply cannot be overstated. As the treatment for and prognosis of cancer patients has greatly improved over the last decade, it has become clear that physical fitness can greatly improve the quality of life and energy levels of cancer survivors. There are two different types of physical fitness. Aerobic activity requires oxygen and helps build up stamina and endurance. Aerobic activities include walking, jogging, riding a bike and hiking. The second type of physical fitness is referred to as anaerobic. Anaerobic exercise includes weightlifting and stretching. These activities increase strength and flexibility.

According to the National Cancer Institute, research indicates that physical activity after a diagnosis of breast cancer may be beneficial in improving quality of life, reducing fatigue and assisting with energy balance. Physical fitness may be an important component of lymphoma treatment, mesothelioma treatment and the treatment of a number of different types of cancer. Physical fitness may also benefit survivors of mesothelioma, lymphoma and prostate, testicular and colorectal cancers after their disease has went into remission.

The physiological benefits of physical fitness include:

1. Increased blood flow to the extremities and improved circulation

2. Increased levels of energy

3. Increased levels of strength

4. Improved stamina and endurance

5. Improved oxygen utilization

6. Decreased level of fatigue daytime exhaustion
The psychological health of anyone going through cancer diagnosis, treatment and remission can be severely challenged. Let's face it, cancer of any type is a very frustrating and scary disease. In those who survive, the psychological toll that the disease has on their minds can linger for years. The psychological benefits of physical exercise in cancer survivors include, but are not limited to:
1. Decrease in levels of anxiety

2. Decrease in levels of feelings associated with depression

3. Increase in feelings of inner strength and well-being

4. Decreased stress and tension

5. Decreased levels of insomnia and daytime fatigue

Of course, I recommend checking with your primary care physician or oncologist before beginning any exercise routine. This is extremely important because there are some inherent risks with physical fitness and the general health of a person with cancer can certainly be compromised. Physical Fitness can certainly be a beneficial component of any cancer treatment program and can also help the person who has survived cancer.

Take care of yourselves, people.

Aussie Word of the Day: Motivational edition

**Just a little warning -- this is kind of a long one.  You might want to go pee or top off your coffee before you start reading.**

Pull your finger out:  Aussie for "get on with it; stop wasting time."*  Shortened form of "pull your finger out of your ass" (apparently, having your finger up your ass interferes with efficiency).

It's been an insane week.  Things are really busy at work and I'm doing this big 90 day push to grow my Beachbody business that involves weekly webinars and daily check-ins with an accountability partner (who is awesome -- hi Ferreh!!) and I'm trying to plan Zeke's birthday party and make it fun without being too too much and this weekend is Yom Kippur and next weekend we're going to a wedding reception and I've got a presentation that I'm doing at a big statewide conference and holy shit.

On the plus side, ski season starts in less than a month, and opening day at Copper Mountain coincides with a flex day, so I've got that to look forward to.

So yesterday at 6:15 in the morning I was in my room doing a workout -- I was in the middle of a set of pushups, to be exact -- when J walked in.  This was a bit of a shock, considering that he had left for work an hour before. 

He's been having some problems with one of the guys on the job -- a former friend (Greg) who was promoted to foreman and immediately turned into a raging asshole at the first whiff of power.  Screaming, yelling, swearing at people -- just generally being incredibly abusive and awful to the guys on the job, and given that the construction industry is notorious for treating guys like dog shit, it's saying something that this guy's behavior really went above and beyond.  Everybody hated him, everybody was miserable.  J would tell him to back off and watch his mouth, and Greg tended to tone it down somewhat with J, but he was still a major douchebag. 

Apparently, a couple of days ago, it got really, really bad.  Guys were completely up in arms, an apprentice was so mad he was throwing things, and the entire job site was tense and miserable.  So J went to have a talk with the head of the company.  In a very calm and rational way, he explained what was going on and that it was negatively impacting everyone, that if the yelling and screaming was meant to be some kind of motivational tool, it was having the opposite effect, and that if something didn't change, guys would be leaving en masse.  The boss, being an asshole himself, kind of blew it off and insinuated that J was being a pussy and just couldn't take the heat.

This is pretty much par for the course.  This company is awful -- they don't pay shit, they provide no benefits, they insist guys work overtime and then mysteriously have "payroll problems" that cause the overtime pay to be absent from paychecks.  They suck.  And in a non-union state like Colorado, there's very little recourse.  It's a tough economy, everyone's grateful to have a job, so the companies make the guys eat shit because they can -- they hold all the cards. 

Fight the power, yo.

So yesterday morning, J made the decision -- probably not so smart in hindsight -- to try to have a calm discussion with Greg and explain why his behavior was inappropriate and counterproductive.  Greg responded by yelling and screaming at J, getting up in his face.  J responded, "Fuck you."  Greg said, "you just quit."  So J came home.

Notice how Greg immediately framed it (and subsequently put it in an email to the boss) that J had quit, rather than been fired?  So as to set up a factual dispute that would make it harder for J to file an unemployment claim? 

Evil fuckers.

Anyway, I'm literally mid-pushup when J walks into the room.  And I'm continuing to do pushups while trying to talk to J to figure out what happened.  This is difficult enough, but J was so angry and shaking and freaked out that it was hard for him to even form a sentence, so I told him to go downstairs and make some coffee and calm down and I'd be there to talk to him in a few minutes after I finished my workout.

We sat in the living room. 

"So what happened?"

"I tried to talk to him, but he kept getting in my face and I just snapped.  I just can't take being treated like that anymore."

"Well, I know you hate it there, and I don't want to pile on, but we can't afford for you to be out of work right now.  We're operating on a razor-thin margin as it is."

"I know.  I know.  I'll find another job."

"Is there any way you can go back?"

"I can't.  I just can't."  He was practically in tears.

I nodded, took a deep breath and got up and went into the next room.  I got a pad of paper and a pen out of a drawer and brought them to him.

"OK.  Then here's what you're going to do.  Write down the name of every single person you can think of that might be able to help you find a new job.  Call Steve [the guy who has done a bunch of work on our house] -- maybe he knows somebody or needs some electrical work on some of his jobs.  Vicki manages a bunch of properties -- call her.  Joe manages a company that does residential electrical stuff -- give him a call.  Guys you've worked with.  That friend of my dad's.  That placement guy that keeps calling you. I'll put the word out to everyone I know and also see if anyone needs any odd jobs done."  He started writing and I continued to rattle off names, which then went on the list.  "Now start calling, texting, and emailing.  We need the money, so start hustling.  Everything's going to be fine, but you need to focus.  Pull your finger out and get it done."

And he did.  He made some calls and sent some texts.  We got the kids up and took them to school, and then he drove me to work.  By the time he dropped me off, he had already gotten the names of some companies that were hiring and had an interview lined up.  I was giving him a pep talk and helping him plan his day, and he was feeling much better.

"This is awesome.  You're really amazing," he told me.

"You married the right woman," I agreed, and I gave him a kiss, got out of the car and went up to my building. 

Within an hour, 6 people in my office had responded to an email I sent out, telling me that they had electrical work they needed done but didn't know anyone reputable to call.  By 10 in the morning, he had another job interview lined up and side jobs to take him through the weekend.  And this morning, he's already had two calls from companies that got his name from friends of his.  So we're thinking that he'll have something solid lined up soon.

In the meantime, he and I have been texting back and forth.  I've been trying to give him little e-pep talks.  At one point, he texted me back:  "Tony Robbins called.  He wanted me to tell you to to back the fuck off."

I don't know.  I may be on to something.
________________________________________________
* I know this expression isn't used only by Aussies, but I never really heard it used in great abundance until I married J.  In the U.S., people tend to use the entire phrase, i.e., "pull your finger out of your ass."  But Aussies feel compelled to abbreviate and shorten everything, so I feel like "pull your finger out" is the Aussie-fied version.

Someday she'll make a great Jewish mother

Josie is going through a massive language explosion all of a sudden.  It's been building slowly for a while -- she's been picking up new words and figuring out how to use them -- but in the past week or so she has been putting sentences together and really expressing herself. 

It's so awesome.  One of the most amazing things about living with the short people (TM Elizabeth) is watching their language acquisition, both because it is fascinating to see it in action and also because when kids start to talk, that's when they get exponentially more fun and interesting (in my opinion). 

This huge change has coincided with Josie's move from the Twinkles class to the Little Dippers* class -- she is now with kids who are talking more than the kids she had been with, and the curriculum is more advanced and language-based.  And she's doing great -- every day when we pick her up, all we get are reports about how engaged she is and how much fun she has.

But -- and again, this is not unexpected or atypical -- she's still struggling with the transition.  She was with the Twinkles for a year and the teachers were wonderful and warm and cuddly and sweet, and by the end of her time there, she was unquestionably the queen bee, so it was a hard place to leave. 

And she obviously thinks about it a LOT.  Because yesterday, as we were heading downstairs to do something, she said to me, "Mama, I don't want Dipper.  I not Dipper."

"Really, honey?"

"Mm-hmmm.  I not Dipper."

"What are you, then?"

"I go Twinkle.  I a Twinkle."

"Oh.  Well, that's interesting."  I refused to confirm her view of the world, but it also did not strike me as worthy of an argument, so I was non-commital.

"I not a Dipper, Mama.  I a Twinkle.  Okay?  Okay??"

"Hmmmm.  Well, we'll see, baby.  We don't have to worry about it right now."

She wasn't assuaged.

"Mama!  I not Dipper.  I go Dipper and I cry.  Okay?  I cry!"

This seriously went on for the next hour.  She was determined to have her point heard, particularly the part about the crying.

It started again when we pulled up at the school when I was dropping the kids off.  I got Josie out of her car seat and was carrying her into the building when she reminded me, "I not a Dipper, Mama."

And when we turned to go into the Dipper room, she lost her shit.  Her whole face crumbled and she buried it in her hands.  "Nooo!  No Dippers!  Noooooo!"

She did indeed cry, just as she promised.

I gave her a big hug and a kiss and assured her that she would be fine.  Her teacher, Miss Jessica (who is great), took her and did the same.  Zeke and I left and went to his classroom to deposit him for the day.

By the time I came out of Zeke's room 5 minutes later, Josie had stopped crying.  Because after all, if I wasn't there to witness it, what was the point?

The girl's got a great future in piling on the guilt.
_________________________________________
*Her school is called "Bright Star," and the different classrooms all have star-related names.  The Twinkles are the 1-year-olds, the Little Dippers are the 2-year-olds and the Cosmos (where Zeke is) are the 3-5 year olds.

Reminders

Some years ago -- at least 4 -- I created an account at a website that sends out birthday reminders for anyone whose birthday you want to remember.  I put in everyone I know, or at least whose birthdays I know.  And then promptly forgot about it and never logged in again.

So now I get these reminders from time to time to send birthday cards or emails or whatever when someone whose information I entered has a birthday coming up.

This morning I got an email reminding me that my grandmother Ruth's birthday is next week.  She would have been 92 on October 4.  (I got one for Leo around his birthday as well.)

It still feels strange to not have my maternal grandparents around, when they were such a big part of my life until my late 30s.  Even when I didn't see them as often as I wanted to, I talked to them all the time.  Even when they weren't with me, they were with me.

So I guess I could log on to that website and update the information.  But I don't want to.  I like remembering.


Grandma Ruth with baby me (2 1/2 months old).  We were living in Cyprus (where I was born)
 and my grandparents came over to meet me.



Dear 2-year old monkey

Dearest Josie, my little bean, you turned 2 years old this past Saturday.  And man, are you going through some major changes.  After transitioning into your new class (the Dippers) over the past couple of weeks, today was the big day that when we went into school, I dropped you off in Miss Jessica's class instead of with Miss Cindy and Miss Francine.  To say that you were not happy about this, despite having had a grand time in Miss Jessica's class during your recent visits, would be a gross understatement.  You cried and cried and reached for me when I left in a way you never do when you go to school.  But you're a tough little cookie, not one to dwell on the negative, and I'm sure that after 10 minutes you were your normal smiling self again. 

It's hard to believe how big you're getting.  Of course, "big" is a relative term, because you're still the peanut-iest little peanut who ever peanutted.  Though you're tall-ish for your age, you're barely on the weight chart, yet to crack the 23 pound mark while your contemporaries are approaching the high 20s and even low 30s.  But you are coordinated and agile, so even though you're a bitty thing, your confidence of movement and your level of comfort in your body makes you seem older.  Plus you're fearless when it comes to physical endeavors, so we know you'll master the Skuut that Daddy and I got you for your birthday in no time.

Though you could use an extra inch or two of leg.

Your birthday itself was a blast, and we're thrilled that you had so much fun at your party.  We kept it mellow and did it at the house, but we rented a bouncy house and your friends came over and you jumped and colored and played and giggled.  Just as it should be.

You were a bit overwhelmed when everyone started singing to you, even though "Happy Birthday" is one of your favorite songs.

 

The art activities included drawing on your face and arms.  But you're still gorgeous.

 

Sidewalk chalks - the perfect end to a perfect party.

Last night we concluded the weekend by snuggling in the bed in your room as I sang you to sleep.  But you weren't that interested in sleeping right away, so we had some hilarious exchanges.

"Song about 'raff, Mama?"

"You want me to sing you a song about a giraffe?"

"Yah."

"Um... I don't know any giraffe songs.  How about other animals?"

So you started to name other animals.  "Turtle.... elephant ... lion..."

"Hmm, songs about a lion..." I said.

And when I said "lion," you said, "RROAAWRR!"

We giggled and roared at each other.

Then a light bulb moment.  "I know a song about a frog!"

So I started to sing Froggy Went A-Courtin'. 

Mr. Froggy went a-courtin' and he did ride, mm-hmm, mm-hmm...

And when I mentioned Mr. Froggy, you said, "ribbit, ribbit."

Which made me laugh and feel the need to give you a squeeze at the same time. 

I kept singing. 

He said, 'Miss Mouse would you marry me, mm-hmm, mm-hmm...

And upon hearing the word "mouse," you said, "squeak, squeak..."

We continued in that vein for awhile, and finally you settled down.

"Night-night, JoJo," I whispered as I put you in your crib.

"Night-night, Mama," you whispered back, and you rolled over and went to sleep.

I love you like crazy, my brave, tough, funny, sweet little girl.  I feel privileged that you're my daughter and that I get to continue to watch you grow and change over the coming years.

Love,

Mama

Milestones and realizations

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.  William Blake."

      "Whaddaya mean, 'William Blake'?!?"                                                

        "I mean, 'WILLIAM BLAKE'!"                                                            

-- Annie Savoy and Crash Davis in Bull Durham.

By the time they hit my age, most people have a fairly set concept of themselves -- what they're like, their defining characteristics, who they are.  And I am certainly no exception.

But like most people, my self-assessment is undoubtedly skewed.  I cultivate an aura of confidence and brashness, sometimes to the point of starting to believe my own hype.  But in truth I am far less confident than I project to the world.  And for all my snarkiness, I detest detached irony and am far more sentimental and earnest than I tend to let on.

I mention this because I have recently been making a concerted effort to get control of my life -- to figure out what parts of it make me happy, what parts don't, what priorities and goals I want to achieve, and how. And the way I have gone about figuring this out and taking steps to move forward are so unlike me -- or at least, unlike the type I play in my head -- that it's kind of freaking me out a little bit.  But in a good way.

I am so not the type to read self-help or personal development type books.  In addition to the fact that I'm a literature snob, and books like that tend to be horribly pedestrian in their writing style, my sense has always been that there really isn't anything new under the sun and that in order to achieve your goals, just decide what you want to do and do it.  I don't need anybody to tell me that.  And all the rah-rah bullshit -- or what I perceive to be rah-rah bullshit -- of people like Tony Robbins or whoever is so not me.

But.  But but but but but...

Sometimes the trick isn't just knowing that in order to get somewhere, you have to figure out your direction and then start the journey.  It's clearing away all the clutter in your head and getting organized enough to even find the road.  Or the car.  And that's where I was having trouble.

What with the kids being as young and demanding as they are, and J working nights for the past 7 weeks or so, and work being crazy and money being tight and trying to manage a full-time job while also trying to figure out how to grow my Beachbody business, to say that I have been a bit harried and overwhelmed over the past few months would be a laughable understatement.  But something had to give, because I was starting to feel the cold clutch of a depressive cycle in my chest, and every time J did something even slightly irritating I was mentally dividing up the household effects and preparing myself for single-parenthood, and I was grumpy with my children and generally exhausted.

So in a flurry of, "aw, what the hell, it can't hurt," I signed up for a 30-day organize-your-life-and-achieve-your-goals challenge run by Chalene Johnson, the woman who created and leads a lot of the workout videos I do.  Starting September 1, every day I have gotten an email from her and watched a video on how to get organized and get successful and happy.  She starts with the basics -- think about what your priorities are.  Write them down.  Then think about what your goals are for the next year.  Are they realistic?  Measurable?  Consistent with your priorities?  Write them down.  Then put them in order, with the biggest, most important one at the top -- the one that makes all the other goals possible.  Write it down.  Then brainstorm about what you would need to do to achieve the goal.  Do you need to do research?  Go to school?  Whatever you need to do, write it down.  Then develop to-do lists, with one or two steps included every day to take you a little closer to achieving your goal.

And so on.  None of this is revolutionary, rocket-science type of stuff.  But having someone slowly and methodically take me through the steps in a way that doesn't overwhelm me was apparently just what I needed.

So I've been doing it.  I keep a notebook that I use to jot stuff down -- my goals, what I want to do when, anything that's on my mind or that somehow relates to my "push" goal (the one that will make my other goals possible).  Every night I do some free-form writing of things to add to my list, and then I transfer the list to my phone, which also syncs with the same list on my computer.  I check it multiple times a day and schedule my days so that everything has a block of time.


You know what?

I feel fucking awesome.  Writing everything down this way takes it out of my head.  So I have it, but it's not stressing me out, because I know it's written down and I'm taking care of everything.  I've become insanely productive.  My 9-to-5 is going great, and I'm taking the Beachbody business forward in a way that will be a decent second income without it feeling like a second job.  I'm happy with my children and my husband again (and the fact that J is now back on days doesn't suck either).  And I feel like I have some direction, and that I know what that direction is.  I don't feel remotely depressed.  In fact, I'm downright cheerful most of the time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to be the same sarcastic bitch you've come to know.  I will never be one of those people that posts tweets or Facebook status updates consisting of inspiring quotes by William Blake or whomever.

But I will be (slightly) less judgmental of those who do.

Her father's daughter

After telling J this morning not to pick the kids up in my car because of the busted key, of course he completely spaced out and picked up the kids in my car, only to have the key crap out on him when he tried to come home.  So they walked home (it's maybe a mile), with Zeke riding his Skuut that he happened to have with him because he took it to school for Show & Tell.

Josie is always very happy to see me when she comes home from school.  She's an affectionate little thing, always giving the kids in her class kisses in the morning when she comes in, coming up to me for random hugs here and there, and leaning in for a kiss just because.  So she walked in the door, threw her arms up and gave me a big squeeze.  "Mama," she sighed.

"That's my girl," I said, giving her a hug and a kiss.  "I love you, sweet pea.  Did you have a good day at school?"

We went over and sat on the couch, where I was watching the final minutes of the U.S. Open men's final.

"Elmo?" she said.

"Sure, honey."  So we settled in to watch Elmo.

She stood up facing me on my lap, threw her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder.  My little snuggle bug.

"I bounce!"  she said, as she jumped around on my lap.  Then she crawled over to look at something on the side table, leaning over with her booty in my face.

And promptly ripped a long, rumbling fart.

"I toot, Mama!"

She was so proud.

"That's my girl," J said.

He'll get no argument from me.

My petite little (stinky) flower.

It's because I'm Jewish, isn't it?

Dear Mercedes:

I've been driving one of your cars for a long time.  Almost 10 years.  And I love her.  She's good to me.  She could use a paint job, but she's still pretty.  She holds my family comfortably. 

And I finally learned how to drive her in the snow, so we're all good.

But seriously, what the fuck is up with the key?

It's like I'm cursed or something. 

The first one lasted 6 years.  But then Zeke bit it or something and it just died.  So I got a new one.

Which I dropped down an elevator shaft.  But I recovered it.  And granted, it wasn't your fault, but the fact that I couldn't just get a new key cut kind of sucked.

Then it started acting funny.  The panic button would suddenly activate without my touching it. 

Then when we were at Monkey Bizness last weekend, it died altogether.  So I was stuck at Monkey Bizness with two tired children.  We took the bus home.  We went to Walgreen's and bought new batteries.

I hate you with the passion of a thousand white-hot suns.

And even though every time I tried to open the key, some other part of it broke or fell off, I got it open and got the new batteries in and got home.

But it's still been acting up.  The panic button is still seemingly possessed.  Sometimes the key works and sometimes it doesn't.

Which is annoying.

This morning I took the kids to school.  When I went back to the car after taking them to their classrooms, the key, which had been working fine, was dead.  When I tried to open it to look at the batteries, it fell apart in my hands.  I sat there futzing with it, fuming that after a week off, I was going to be late for work on my first day back. 

I finally got it to work and got home. 

But I'm not risking using it again.  Meaning I have to shell out $200 for another key.

Your cars are beautiful.  They drive like a dream.  I fell safe in them. 

But your keys fucking suck.  Honestly, sometimes the old technology -- an actual fucking metal key that you put in the ignition and then turn -- is the way to go. 

I'm starting to take it personally.  You are a German company, after all.

Just wanted to let you know. 

Love,

Wendy

Vacation, all I ever wanted...

Maybe this will be me some time next week.  I just need to learn how to waterski.

It's been kind of a crazy week.  My family survived the hurricane just fine.  I met up with my Denver sorority sisters for a little pool party, which was fun.  I'm trying to figure out what to do for Josie's birthday, which is on September 24, and then for Zeke's birthday, which is a month later.  Josie's can be low-key because she's not quite at the age where she really gets what a birthday is, but I still want to do something fun for her.  Maybe rent a jumping castle and just invite some friends over for cake and ice cream. 

Then yesterday was the big launch of P90X2, the follow-up program to P90X.  It's a huge deal for Beachbody, the company I rep, so in my spare time (i.e., after the kids are asleep) I've been watching webinars to learn about it and reading up on the new training methods it incorporates and then writing blog posts and scheduling stuff on HootSuite to go up on Facebook and Twitter (and I know my posts have been numerous and repetitive -- sorry about that).  But I've already gotten some advance orders, so it's kind of cool.  Seriously, all you athletes out there, this program is gonna be the shiz, so if you're interested, click here or send me an email.  I'm sort of nervous because it looks so tough, but also kind of psyched to see how hard I can push myself at the ripe old age of 41. 

But now I'm (almost) on vacation.  The office is closed on Monday for Labor Day, and next Friday is a flex day, so I decided to take off Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday for an entire week off.  I'm not going anywhere, just staying at home and cleaning out closets and maybe painting a room and exercising and reading and going to the movies in the middle of the day or meeting friends for lunch and just relaxing.  I haven't had a "staycation" since I was between jobs last November.  And that wasn't even paid time off, so this is going to be even better!

Just a few more hours....

Friday frippery

It only took a year.
I had a flex day today and spent it cleaning and organizing the house.  We finally finished the walls downstairs, so I hung paintings.  The house looks pretty.  I'll take some pictures and post some before-and-afters to contrast with when we first bought it.  Of course, the kids will be home in an hour and it will go from being nice and clean to being a shit-show in no time.

Progress?
We've finally, finally moved on from Elmo.  But now Josie is obsessed with Yo Gabba Gabba.  
This morning I went into her room when I heard her awake.  "Hi, sweetie!"  I said.  "Gook and Gabba-Gabba!" she responded. (She doesn't have anything against the North Vietnamese -- "gook" is Josie-speak for milk.)

I kind of like the show.  It's trippy and weird, but I like the very specific lessons it offers, like songs devoted to how you shouldn't put things you find on the floor in your mouth.  But J is wary.

"Don't let her watch too much of that show," he warned.

"Why not?" I asked.

"She'll grow up to participate in drum circles and be a glass-blower.  There's no money in that."

Be safe, East coast internet peoples.
Even though I am obviously not personally in harm's way, I'm a little freaked out by the projected path of Hurricane Irene.  I have family and friends in Virginia Beach, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City and the Boston area -- all of which look to be about to take a beating -- plus the Outer Banks of North Carolina is about to take a direct hit.  Sammy and Camille, please don't ride out the storm on the 47th floor in Tribeca.  And call me and let me know you're OK.

Have a good weekend, all!

If only spotting other members of the Tribe were that easy

I would wager that for most American Jews, being Jewish is as much a cultural experience and identification as it is a religious one, if not more so.  And I include myself in this generalization.  I am not particularly religious, but I very much identify with being Jewish.  Many of my ancestors came to this country because of their Judaism -- my great-grandparents escaped the pogroms -- and spoke English with a very heavy accent because they mostly spoke Yiddish.*  For my parents, being part of the Jewish community was an essential aspect of growing up in Detroit in the middle of the last century.  Even when my dad went to the University of Virginia, he was in a fraternity that was identified as a Jewish fraternity, because Jews weren't really welcomed in the more established houses. 

So a big part of being Jewish, in response to persecution and prejudice, was to mostly associate and identify with other Jews.**  And even though that kind of prejudice and persecution is not so prevalent today -- when my grandmother asked me if I was rushing Jewish houses when I decided to go through sorority rush in college, I had no idea what she was talking about -- there's still a sense of recognition and kinship in encountering other Jews in everyday life, as well as pride in the accomplishments of other Jews.

But of course, you don't always know who is Jewish and who isn't.

My mom and I were talking on the phone about her recent trip out of the country.

"I met the most wonderful Jewish couple," she said.  "I was talking to the husband and of course I didn't come right out and ask him but some of the things he was saying made me think that he might be Jewish, and that he realized that I might be Jewish.  But it's not like you necessarily can tell right off the bat."

"Right.  We're not required to wear yellow stars on our sleeves anymore."

"Exactly.  I mean, I couldn't just ask him to stick out his penis so I could inspect it."

No. 

Because that would be very awkward.



_________________________________
*They called me "Vinda" because there isn't really a "w" sound in Yiddish.  "Vinda, vould you like a gless of meeelk?  Some coookies?  You need to eat, dahlink."

**I recognize this is not a novel or revolutionary observation.  It's true of all minority groups throughout history.

Apropos of nothing except that this story totally cracks me up every time I think of it

My brother Sam and his girlfriend Camille live in New York City in a 47th floor apartment in Tribeca.* They have two dogs, both pugs.  Number One Pug is a boy named Phillip, who is 11.  Philip is fat and hilarious and adorable.  He's lazy as shit and would eat 24/7 if given the chance, and he's a big sweetie and we love him.

Sam set up a Facebook page for him, with a bio that says he went to SUNY-New Paltz and status updates that say things like, "Tonight for dinner I had ... wait for it ... dog food.  Jesus Christ.  I feel like I'm in a Kafka novel."  Fucking priceless.

Anyway, Phillip was an only dog for awhile.  And around the time that Sam and Camille decided to move in together, they got Daisy, also a pug (or, more accurately, Camille got Daisy, which means Sam got Daisy).  I believe Daisy is a rescue dog.  Daisy is slightly older than Phillip, and other than the fact that they're both pugs, they are easily distinguishable from each other to anyone paying attention.

Phillip and Daisy.  To quote Sam, "they're not exactly Great Danes, but they'll do the trick."

So they're looking for a place to live and they find this place in Tribeca. And I think when they submitted their application, they said they only had one dog -- I'm not sure if they hadn't gotten Daisy yet, but I suspect that they had but fudged a bit to increase their odds of having the application approved.  Apparently, it's a very nice building with a doorman and standards that are enforced by a condo board or management association or whatever.

(Incidentally, they also lied about Phillip's weight and then were incensed when his vet, who has been trying to get Phillip on a diet for years, refused to sign a certification that Phillip weighed only 20 pounds.  Which, if you've ever seen Phillip, is a big "no duh.")

So they move in and the place is great and all is well.  Except for the fact that they claimed to have only one dog but actually have twice that.  I guess they did things like hid or sprinted down the street when they saw someone from the management association approaching them.

They had been in the new apartment a couple of weeks when we went to the beach in New Hampshire, and they joined us there for a couple of days.  They had gotten a message from one of the management people:  "Uhhh, Mistuh [Wendy's Brother], we need to work out the situation with the dooh-ug."  In my head, the person leaving the message was either Selma or Patty Bouvier, with a heavy, heavy New Yawk accent.

Sam's plan was to appeal to her sense of decency by explaining that Daisy was a rescue dog and that if he didn't take her in, she would be put down and DO YOU WANT TO BE A PARTY TO DOG MURDER???

Turns out Patty/Selma's sensibilities were not so delicate, because she didn't give a shit.  "Don't you try to make me feel guilty, Mistuh [Wendy's Brother].  You were only supposed to have one dog and you've got two and it's not my problem."

Now, to me this whole scenario is all the more awesome because of Sam's extraordinary ability to be seized with self-righteousness when he is clearly and unquestionably in the wrong (remember when he made up a Wikipedia entry and then was all indignant when it was removed not because it wasn't true, but because it wasn't noteworthy enough?).**  And I say this as someone who absolutely adores him.  But it's true.  So the image of this grumpy woman peering out at him over her cat-eye glasses while the world's longest piece of ash threatens to fall off the cigarette dangling from her lips, as she tells him to take his old pathetic dying dog and shove it, just makes me giggle.

But now the condo board/management association had him by the short hairs.  What to do?  What would become of poor Daisy?

The solution was surprisingly simple.

I think it might have been the super (who isn't on the management association) who suggested that they walk the dogs separately and always take one out the front entrance and the other out the back entrance.  So that the doormen would only ever see one dog at a time, and always the same dog, and thus somehow be duped into thinking they only had one.

And amazingly, it worked.  Even though Phillip is a spry (if chubby) dapper young gentleman, and Daisy could not be mistaken for anything but his decrepit old aunt.

Only in New York.  I love it.

______________________________________

*Originally this post stated that they lived on the Upper West Side and that Phillip was 5 or 6 years old. Those errors have been corrected. Apparently Phillip looks young for his age.

**This post was written when Sam was married to Voldemort a/k/a She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He isn't any more. Obvs.

Nasty, brutish and short

I feel like everywhere I turn, people I know and care about are dying of cancer.  The brother of one of my brother Josh's best friends from high school just relapsed.  The neighbor who has lived across the street from my parents the entire 27 years they have lived in their house is in the ICU with non-smoking-related lung cancer, and he isn't expected to come out.  A woman that used to work in my office (and who was a judge in a case I litigated) was diagnosed with lung cancer a little over a month ago and then died last weekend.  She was 47 and had never smoked.

And this past Friday my cousin Simon died of brain cancer.  He was only in his mid-50s, and had always been healthy and fit until suddenly getting a tumor a couple of years ago. His death came a few months after his father, my cousin Ron, died of kidney failure.

It's such a cliche, but damn, it can all go in a second, can't it?  So hug your kids.  Don't work too late.  Take care of yourself and your loved ones.  Don't be an asshole.

This world is not for the faint of heart, that's for sure.

**UPDATE 8/24/11:  The neighbor died today. 

I'm about as liberal as they come, but then I drew a line.

One of my little indulgences is getting manicures and pedicures.  I don't like my nails to be particularly long, but I like them nicely groomed and painted and pretty.  And it's lovely to sit and relax for an hour while someone else massages your hands and feet. 

But in these days of skyrocketing food bills (which are already high because my husband eats what would be normal for 3 adults his size) and monthly daycare checks that are more than my mortgage, I was looking for places to cut back.  And since I love getting a full-body massage even more than I like getting my nails done, I decided to substitute bi-weekly professional manicures with bi-weekly massages (on the cheap, courtesy of Groupon and the like) and just do my nails myself.

This coincided with my discovery of nail polish strips.  They're strips of real polish that you stick on your nails like a decal, and they come in different designs that are fun and super-cute.  Plus they stay on for a couple of weeks, so you get a manicure-type look and it lasts for a while.

 
Now, it turns out that Zeke likes having his nails painted.  Occasionally when he's seen me get the polish out, he'll ask if I can paint his as well.  I often use colors like navy blue or slate gray that aren't that ultra-feminine, so I'll put some on his nails or toes and he giggles and enjoys it.  J isn't crazy about it, but I don't think it's a big deal.


Sally Hansen's Salon Effects Nail
Polish Strips, "Girl Flower" -- would
you let a 4-year-old boy put
this on his nails?  Am I being an asshole
and overreacting?

But then the other night I was putting on some new nail strips that are a bright flowery pattern in pinks and oranges and yellows and purples.  I was sitting in my bed while Zeke sat next to me watching The Upside Down Show.  When he saw the nail strips, he was all curious and wanted me to put some on his nails as well.

I thought about it for a second, but then shook my head and told him "no" and made up some bullshit about how they were just for grownups.

I don't want to make a big deal about things that aren't a big deal.  And I don't want to stigmatize behavior that obviously has no sexual or gender-driven motivation.  He likes the nail polish because it's colorful and different and because I'm doing it.  It's fine.

Why do I care?  I don't care.  Who cares?  What difference does it make?

I want to be the cool J. Crew mommy who lets her son paint his toenails neon pink.

But it turns out I'm not.    

I didn't think I was *that* bad

Even though J is now working night shift, we've been able to maintain the weekday routine we've had established for awhile. 

He gets home at about 5:45 or 6 in the morning.  We both handle the morning routine with the kids, I go to work, he takes them to school and then comes home and sleeps.  He gets up, does whatever he does (works out, cleans, etc.) and then goes to get the kids at about 4:45 or 5, and then takes them to the park or to swim or something.  In the meantime, I get home from work, exercise, and then get dinner ready so that we can eat when J gets home with the kids.  We play, have bathtime, read books.  J goes to work at about 8:30 and I put the kids to bed and then wind down for the night.

I've gone through stages when I've regularly exercised in the morning, but it's been hard to do that lately because Josie's been getting up early and occasionally she'll wake up right when I'm in the middle of a workout.  And I enjoy exercising in the afternoon because the endorphin release makes me all happy and calm, so I'm feeling good and have tons more patience with the kids than I would otherwise have.

The weekend was really hectic and I had a hard time finding time to work out.  So by yesterday afternoon, it had been a couple of days and I was feeling kind of stressed and antsy. 

I was talking to J on the phone when I was getting ready to leave work.  He was lamenting that he didn't know what he was going to do with the kids in the afternoon because it was getting ready to thunderstorm.

"Well, figure something out, because I really need some time to exercise.  It's been a couple of days and I've got to exercise.  You know, I find that I'm much more patient and easy-going when I exercise.  So it benefits you, too."

Without missing a beat, he said, "no problem.  I'll be at the park with the kids for the next three hours."

Hmph.

In which it is revealed who plays with funny-shaped balls in my family

I know that this post will result in an irate phone call from my father.  "Don't you criticize my grandson!"  In his eyes, neither of my children can ever do any wrong, and both will win the Nobel prize, the Heisman Trophy (even Josie) and at least one Olympic gold medal by the time they're 20.

My response will be that I am not trying to criticize Zeke.  Just pointing out my observations about his strengths and weaknesses.

We went on a date night the other night to watch rugby with some good friends (the wife ended up not being able to go because of a feverish baby, so J and I hung out with the husband).  The US team in town was playing a test match against Canada. I really enjoy watching rugby even though I don't understand it very well.  It's a fierce game played by tough, fit people.

I observed that, at least in the U.S., where rugby tends to be most popular in universities, I love guys that play rugby because they're big strapping strong men who also tend to be smart and well-educated.

"Not in Australia, baby," J corrected me.  "In Oz they're the window-lickers."*

In any case, it was a beautiful evening and we had a great time enjoying a few beers and watching the game even though the U.S. team got their asses handed to them by the Canadian side.

In fact, because the main attraction was kind of a dud of a game, the highlight of the evening came during halftime, when some kids from local youth clubs played against each other for a couple of possessions.

The kids were awesome and the best player on the field was a girl.  She was fast and tough and amazing at reading the field while she ran with the ball.

The friend that we were with, Trey, is the parent of one of Zeke's friends from daycare.  His daughter, Lucy, is about 3 months younger than Zeke (she'll be 4 in January) but is super-tall (she towers over Zeke and looks like she's about 5) and totally athletically fearless.  She loves rugby (her dad plays) and is going to start playing in a youth league this winter.

As we were watching the kids play, particularly the one girl who was really good, Trey was talking about how excited he is for Lucy to start playing.

J kind of shook his head.  "Yep, and Zeke will be on the sidelines, cheering her on while playing with his iPad."

I couldn't really disagree with him.

Not that we think Zeke is a pussy, because we don't.  He's a good athlete, loves jumping around, taught himself to swim at the age of 3 1/2, enjoys ski school and all of that.  But he's kind of cautious and sensitive and cerebral.  I see him as a baseball player more than I see him playing something like football or rugby.**

No, the consensus (at least between J and me) is that the biggest balls in the family belong to Josie.

Because Josie is like J -- totally fearless, amazingly coordinated and athletic, and utterly without regard for her own physical safety.  She will climb on and jump off of anything.  She takes shit from no one and will not hesitate to defend herself when someone gets in her face (I'm sure that some of her toughness comes from being knocked around by Zeke, but I also think it's just part of who she is).

This is particularly alarming in the pool, because she thinks she can swim even though she really can't -- she's a frightening combination of supreme confidence combined with a lack of actual ability.   I can't even take her in the big pool because she gets so mad when I hold on to her.  So I let her bounce around in the 2-foot-deep baby pool, where she puts her head underwater and starts kicking her arms and legs, and then after a few seconds she'll put her feet back down and stand up.  If she's under for more than 5 or 6 seconds, I'll gently tug under her armpit and pull her back up so she can breathe, but other than that I leave her alone.  The other parents always look horrified, but she's fine.  I'm obviously not going to let her drown.

So even though she's a skinny little string-bean, if anyone is going to be kicking ass and taking names on the rugby pitch, it'll be Josie, not Zeke.  Not that I think he'll be pasty-faced virgin living in our basement well into adulthood -- hell, he could have a career as a porn star -- but I don't see him as a rugby player.

Sorry, Dad, but it's true.

___________________________________________
*I had to look up what a window-licker is, but I correctly assumed it wasn't Aussie-speak for someone who went to Harvard.  Turns out it's not a very nice term, but in my experience, Aussies can be a bit harsh in their word choices even though they are some of the friendliest people on the planet.


**On the other hand, Zeke reminds me of another sensitive, cerebral guy - my brother Sam, who is a terrific athlete, including being a really good football and rugby player.  So what do I know?

A little of this, a little of that

I've been crazy busy both at home and at work.  I feel like my head is full of things I want to write down in an organized way, but I can't because it's all crammed in there too tight for me to present anything except in bullet form. 

• J started on the night shift last week.  So he works Sunday night to Thursday night, from 9 pm to 5 am.  It actually hasn't been too bad, because he still picks the kids up from school in the afternoons and then plays with them for a little while before bringing them home for dinner.  We hang out for awhile, then he goes to work and I get the kids to bed.  Then he's home when we get up in the morning.  Sometimes he gets the kids up and takes them to school, sometimes he's too tired, so I do it.  But we see each other about the same as we did before, except that we don't sleep together.  Ships passing in the night and all that.  Such is the modern life.
• We went to a really fun party last weekend, hosted by the parents of one of Josie's classmates.  It was a quasi-dressy garden party, so I wore my sassy reunion dress and J wore a nice shirt and linen pants.  We met some really cool people and had a blast having a night out with no kids.  But J being J, he abandoned his shoes at one point, stepped on something and sliced open the ball of his foot.  A first aid kit was produced and I proceeded to do surgery by cutting away this massive chunk of bloody skin that was hanging off of him, then cleaning and bandaging the wound.  At least J was so drunk ("beer-then-liquor-never-sicker") that it didn't hurt him too much.  When he went back the next day to retrieve his wallet or whatever he had left, he asked Erin, the hostess, if she had a good time.  "Well, one person sprained their ankle, another fell down the stairs, there's blood on the patio and the house smells like weed.  So I guess it was a successful party!"
• Tomorrow is another flex day.  I'm getting a massage, organizing the kids' clothes drawers, and maybe going to IKEA, which opened a Denver branch a couple of weeks ago.  I've never been to an IKEA.  I may have a spontaneous orgasm upon walking into the place.  I'll let you know.
• Wonder of wonders, J and I are having another date night this weekend.  I KNOW!  Two weekends in a row!!  This time we're going with some friends to watch the USA v. Canada in rugby.  I've never played rugby, but both my brothers have played, J played as a kid in Australia, and the guy we're going with plays in a local rec league.  It's actually a really fun game to watch, plus it'll be great to hang out with friends and have a grown-up night out.
• Continuing the theme of men being clueless when they enter the confines of a grocery store or similar retail establishment, J noticed that Zeke was running low on night-time pull-ups (he's toilet trained during the day, but wears a pull-up diaper at night) and offered to pick some up on his way home from work.  I said, "the ones he's been wearing are 4T-5T and they're a little big on him.  Get the 3T-4T size."  J said, "right, got it."  He came home with baby diapers (not pull-ups) in a size 4 -- which is what Josie wears.  Zeke hasn't worn size 4s for at least 2 1/2 years.  I can't win.

Happy Thursday, all!

How to have a healthy marriage, and why almond milk is good for you

About a year ago I was informed that this blog had been put on a list of the top 50 blogs for marriage advice.  Considering that you can't swing a virtual dead cat without hitting 100 other blogs just like this one, and that I ain't exactly Dooce when it comes to the level of my readership, I was (pleasantly) surprised and a bit befuddled.  Then a few months ago some guy who wrote a book about marriage, and particularly Jewish marriage, contacted me and asked me to do a post for his blog and also to read and review his book (I would provide a link to his blog but now I can't find the email).  Because I am constantly overestimating my ability to get anything done, I told him I would and then promptly didn't.  Not to be an asshole, but let's just say it's a task that joins many others on a very long list.

But the thought of being asked for marriage or relationship advice or insight popped into my head yesterday when I was poking around in the fridge looking for almond milk.  I drink almond milk, and particularly use it to make my daily Shakeology shakes, because it's very low in calories and has no sugar, so it's perfect for my low glycemic diet. 

The thing is, there are two kinds of almond milk -- sweetened and unsweetened.  And obviously, I need the unsweetened kind.

J is working on a big job at a local supermarket that's undergoing massive refurbishment, so he does a lot of our shopping these days.  Which is great, because it saves me a chore (at least during the week), because now that I'm taking the bus to work, I can't just pop in to the grocery store on my way home from work anymore. 

But it's also a problem, because he is about the worst grocery shopper on the planet.

For some reason, in our relationship it has become my job to keep track of the contents of our pantry and refrigerator.  And maybe it is just a function of how my brain works -- I have the ability to see in my mind a snapshot of the cupboards or fridge at any given time, so I can pretty much always tell you what we have and what we need.  Plus, I assume that if I am aware of the fact that we are out of soy sauce, everyone else is aware of that fact as well, so if they happen to be at the grocery store, they will know to pick up a bottle of soy sauce without me having to tell them.  Or that at least, if someone else is going to go to the store, they will let me know beforehand and say something like, "I'm going to the store.  I'm going to get cheese, pasta, pasta sauce and laundry detergent.  Is there anything else we need?"  And then I'll say, "don't forget the soy sauce."

But invariably, one of two things happens. 

• I will go to the store and replenish the soy sauce supply, and then J will go the store and ALSO buy more soy sauce, so we end up with an entire section of the fridge devoted to soy sauce; or
• J will do some shopping without telling me in advance, will be oblivious to the lack of soy sauce in the house (even though he's the only one who uses it) and will not buy any, and then the next time I make red Thai curry chicken, he will ask me for soy sauce and then be annoyed when I explain that we don't have any.

Actually, three things - I just thought of a third.

• I will say I'm going to the store and ask him if there's anything he can think of that we need.  He'll say "soy sauce," because he only glanced in the fridge for .38 seconds and didn't see the bottle of soy sauce hiding in plain sight next to the bottle of Newman's Own salad dressing.  I'll say, "don't we already have soy sauce?" because I have my mental picture.  J will say, "no."  I'll think to myself, I could have sworn we had some, but he's the one that uses it, so I guess he finished it without my realizing it.  Then I will buy soy sauce.  When I get home, I will be annoyed when I go to put it away when I find that we already had a full bottle sitting right under our noses.

J is also a bad grocery shopper because he doesn't pay attention to labels.  And I don't just mean the details of nutritional labels, like how many calories or fat grams are in anything.  I'm talking about the basics.  One time he said he was going to the store, so I asked him to pick up some shredded cheddar cheese because we were going to have chili for dinner.  He came home with fake, non-dairy soy cheese-type substance.  When I was getting dinner ready and grabbed the "cheese" and saw what it was, I asked, "what the hell is this?"  "Oh, I just grabbed it.  I didn't realize what it was."

Cue the eye roll.

So, back to the almond milk. 

Last week, when he told me he was going to do some grocery shopping, I asked him to pick up some almond milk.  I said, "make sure it's the unsweetened kind.  It will say 'unsweetened' on it.  If it doesn't say, 'unsweetened,' don't get it.  It's sweetened by default, so get the kind that says, 'unsweetened.'" 

I must have told him this 5 or 6 different times.  He "yeah yeah"-ed me.

He came home with the sweetened kind.

Then again, two nights ago he was going to do some grocery shopping.  I gave him a list.  On the list, I wrote "almond milk."  When I gave him the list, I said, "please make sure it's the unsweetened kind."  I said this repeatedly.  He "yeah yeah"-ed me.

So there I am yesterday, poking around in the fridge, looking for almond milk.  All I can find is the same carton of sweetened milk that I can't drink.

"I thought you were getting almond milk?  It was on the list."

"But we already have some, right there," he responded.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my head from exploding.

You hear people talk about communication being the key to a healthy relationship.  And I wholeheartedly agree with that.  But I think I would focus on a different kind of communication than the kind talked about in every other article in women's magazines. 

Don't talk about your deep-down feelings or that kind of shit.  Really, most of the time, who the fuck cares? 

I'm talking about communicating -- both talking and listening -- about the basics.  Chores.  Laundry.  Grocery shopping.  Where you put the kids' shoes when you came home from the pool, so that the next time we go out I know where their shoes are.

The little things that make everyday life so tedious.  My feeling is, if you make those things smoother, everything is smoother.  Remove the small annoyances that build up into big annoyances and grumpiness.

If you're the only one that knows what's in the fridge, just accept that fact, make a list and keep it someplace conspicious.  And when your spouse says, "make sure you get the unsweetened almond milk," then get the motherfucking unsweetened almond milk.

But also, when you don't get what you want, take a deep breath and keep your head from exploding.  Because in the grand scheme of things, life goes on.

It's just almond milk.

Family tradition

When my brother Joshua was little, I'm thinking maybe 4 years old or so -- in other words, close to Zeke's age now -- he and my mom were out together.  Grocery shopping, running errands.  Doing something out in public.

And my mother noticed a dwarf was standing near them.  (Or "little person," whatever.) 

Her stomach sank, because she knew that Josh would notice them too.  And would be incapable of not commenting on this person's short stature. 

Loudly.

"Mom!!"

"Yes, Joshua.  Shhh."

His body was practically vibrating with excitement at this point.  "Mom!  MOM!!  Look!!  Look!"

"Yes, Joshua, I see, please don't point.  Shhh.  It's not polite."

"But Mom!  Mom!!  Look at that person!!  Look!  LOOOK!  MOM MOM MOOOOOOM!"

"Mmmhmmm, hey, we need to get out of here, pleasestoppointingI'llgiveyouanythingyouwantjustpleasestop ohmygodjustlettheflooropenupandswallowusboth.  Shhhh.  Please."

I know most parents go through a similar situation at least once. 

But it's hard to be prepared.

Yesterday Zeke and I went for a late afternoon swim at our community pool.  It's a short walk from our house so it's nice to go late and get the kids tired and hungry from swimming -- dinner and bedtime tend to be a breeze.  Josie didn't feel like going so she stayed with J and they went for a walk or something, and Zeke and I walked over for a swim, just the two of us. 

We were hanging out in a corner of the big swimming pool and Zeke was practicing swimming from the wall to where I was standing, about 10 feet away.  There were a couple of ladies sitting on the edge of the pool with their feet dangling in the water.  They were both a little on the heavy side.

At one point Zeke said, "look, Mama, that lady has a baby in her tummy."

I hadn't noticed any pregnant women in the vicinity, so I was looking around trying to find who he was talking about.

"Where, sweetie?"

"Right there!"  He pointed to one of the ladies sitting near us.  Who, to me, looked chubby rather than pregnant, though I couldn't say for sure. 

My chest tightened.  I threw a Hail Mary.  "Oh, do you mean that pregnant lady way waaay over there down by the fence, really far away from where we are now?  Is that the lady you were talking about?"  My efforts were so pitiful and obvious to me that I was practically rolling my eyes at myself.

Zeke started swimming again and appeared to lose interest in the maybe-chubby-maybe-pregnant lady.  I figured we were safe and concentrated on teaching him how to time his breathing and float on his back.  We meandered around the shallow end a little bit.

We drifted back to our old position.  Near the lady.  He glanced at her and her stomach a few times, obviously trying to work out what was going on, but then would go back to swimming.

Then at one point, Zeke swam from me to the wall, right next to where she was now standing in the water. 

And said to her, "hey!  You have a big tummy!"

I grabbed Zeke's arm and whisked him away to give him a talk about how people don't like to be told that they have big tummies.  I was uttering parento-babble-bullshit, hoping to distract and somehow persuade him at the same time. 

Thankfully, the lady was deep in conversation with her friend and either didn't hear Zeke or did a great job of acting as if she hadn't heard him. 

But still, I was mortified, and I keep thinking I could have handled it better or differently, though I'm not sure how.

Parents out there, what would you have done?  Any tips on dealing with a situation like this?

Flex

Yesterday one of my co-workers stopped by my cubicle to say good-bye as she was heading out.

"Are you flexing tomorrow?"*

It always so funny when people talking about their day off as "flexing."  It brings to mind standing around my house assuming various body-building poses.

"Yep," I said, as I raised my arms to show her my biceps.

My bi- weekly days aren't necessarily to flex my body, though I will use some of the free time to exercise.  Mostly, I use it to flex my sanity.

Weekends are not relaxing for me right now.  The kids are still so young and needy and demanding, so we spend our time Doing Things.  The zoo, the science museum, the park, the pool, in between getting the house cleaned and running weekend errands.  So I often get to work on Monday exhausted and relieved to be able to sit quietly in my cube and work without noise or requests for milk or announcements of "I got poopies."

So my flex days are sacred.  I get to spend time in my quiet house, paint my nails, do some cleaning.  Maybe take a nap.

I'll meet with my contractor about doing some painting and finish work.  This afternoon I'm getting a 90-minute massage (from the same kid whose face I managed to avoid tooting in last time -- I'm hopeful I'll be equally successful today).  I've got a couple of errands to run.

Mostly, I'll just revel in the silence and the solitude and steel myself for the noise and craziness of the next couple of days.
_______________________
*In every two week period, I work a "flex" schedule consisting of 8 9-hour days, 1 8-hour day and then have every second Friday off.

Road trip ideas, and why fighting with your siblings means you don't get to have any fun

This past weekend, we were talking with my mom about how we love that Josie and Zeke get along so well, and how important it is that they love each other and have strong relationships when they grow up.  I'm very close to my brothers, and J is tight with his brother and sister, and we want our children to look to each other and always have each others' backs.

My mom opined that the closeness between my brothers and me stems in part from the fact that we spent a lot of time together as kids and took lots of family vacations. 

Suddenly, Josie sneezed.  My mom said, "God bless you!" 

Josie grinned and giggled. 

My mom explained, "Josie, that was a sneeze.  Can you say 'sneeze'?" 

"Neees."

And it reminded Mom of a funny story about my brothers and me from when we were kids.

In the summer of 1982, when I was 12, Josh was 10 and Sam was 5, we were in the U.S. on home leave from Israel (where we lived from 1980 to 1984).  My aunt (mom's sister) lived in Boston and was about to give birth to her first baby (my cousin Aaron), so we went to visit her and also took a beach trip to Cape Cod.  The drive out to Cape Cod was in an old Rent-a-Wreck that was massive.  Josh and I sat in the back seat and Sam sat up front with my parents.

My mother became concerned when she started to hear sneezing from the back seat.  One after the other after the other.

"Bless you."

"God bless you!"

"Gesundheit!  Oh my goodness, are you two OK?"

It kept going on, non-stop sneezing.

She turned to my father.  "We're going to need to find a doctor.  We're flying back in a couple of days and I'm worried that the kids are getting sick."

Titters and giggles from the back seat.

She turned back and glared at us.  We acted natural, probably complete with fake whistling and glancing around nonchalantly.

Another sneeze.  More giggles.

She snapped her head back in time to see me with a shoe-lace up my nose.  Josh and I had been sticking shoe-laces up our noses to make ourselves sneeze.

In our defense, this was before the days of personal DVD players and video games.  And reading in the car makes me carsick.

After being admonished by my mother ("what on earth is the matter with you two??"), we settled down for a little while. 

Zing -- splat!

The spit-balls had started.  We had stopped at a McDonald's for lunch.  McDonald's has big, wide straws.  So Josh and I grabbed a bunch of them and some paper napkins and entertained ourselves by trying to hit the rear-view mirror.  Or the windshield.  Or the side-view mirror.  Or the back of Sam's head.

More giggling.  Even my parents were amused.

Sam fumed from the front seat.  He was a whiny little thing at that age and was always bitching about something.

"It's not fair!  How come Josh and Wendy get to sit in the back and have fun while I have to sit up here with you??"

My mother responded sensibly, "because you can't sit with your brother or sister without getting into a fight."

Zing!

Josie and Zeke, let this be a lesson.  Together, you can rule the world.  Or at least dot it with soggy bits of chewed up paper napkins.

Always look on the bright side of life.

Zeke is going through a phase that can only be described as, um, Oedipal.  Lecherous, even.

In addition to STILL being in the naked-all-the-time toddler phase, lately it seems like he just wants to consume me.  He only wants to sleep pressed up against me.  If I'm sitting on the couch, he's on me.  If I'm walking from one part of the house to the other, he wants to come with me and hold my hand.

"Mama, I just want to be with you."

"Mama, if we go to the store, I don't want Josie or Daddy to come."

"Mama, I want to snuggle with you."

"Mama, let's get married."

Then there's the fact that when he's on me, it's like being with a cross between a horny teenage boy and an octopus.  Constantly kissing me, licking me, running his hands over me, trying to reach his hands inside my shirt and touch my boobs.

The other day I was wearing a dress and sitting on the couch.  Zeke walked up, lifted up the edge of my skirt and put his head under it.

"Well, that's disgusting," observed my mother, who was visiting for the weekend.

Add to that his tendency to be constantly tugging at his junk or otherwise touching himself -- on the couch, in the car, while he walks around the house, and I'm beginning to worry that I'm raising a little pervert.

Yesterday we were all up in Zeke's room playing with blocks.  Zeke (who was naked, natch) found a red plastic ball about half the size of a tennis ball.  He propped it between his butt cheeks and started walking around giggling.

"I'm kind of nervous that he's going to grow up to be some kind of fetishist porn star," I said to J.

"Well, at least he'll make some serious coin and get laid a lot," J responded.

I guess that's one way of looking at it.

A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste

Yesterday J and I were talking on the phone as he was on his way home from work, discussing possible dinner plans.

"I set out some chicken breasts to defrost, so we can figure out something to do with them when I get home," I said.

"Awesome.  We've got vegetables we can have.  I'm sure we've got some steamers in the freezer," J responded.

We were both quiet for a couple of seconds and then I started to giggle.

"And not of the Cleveland variety," he clarified.*

Had I been in the act of taking a sip of some liquid, I would be in the process of explaining to the tech people at work why my keyboard isn't working because I spit all over it.  Thankfully, I wasn't.  And on the plus side, I have been been tittering to myself nonstop since this conversation took place.  It's the little things that keep you going, right?

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*Do not click on this link if you are disturbed by descriptions of truly disgusting - and I mean disgusting - sexual acts.  Also, sorry, Mom.  Also, I have no idea why I even know what a Cleveland Steamer is.  I am not a sexual deviant or even remotely turned on by poo.  Knowing me, I heard a reference to it somewhere (TV?  the radio?) and googled it.  Mostly, I just think the name sounds funny.

Brain dump

I'm back from a week of vacation.  I went with my family to the beach in New Hampshire.  After taking two weeks to go to Australia in May, J couldn't get more time off, so I took the kids by myself.

Some general observations:

• My family has been going to the beach on the Outer Banks of North Carolina since I was 8 or 9.  I loooooove the Outer Banks.  But I have to admit that I love the beach in New England in summertime more than I love the Outer Banks.  It feels blasphemous to even think it.  But the weather is better, the nights are cooler, and the beach and the waves are just as good.  The water is colder, but I got used to it (and that's why God invented wetsuits).

Our first morning in the house, going for a surf with Emma at 6:30 in the morning.  I'm wearing the wetsuit that J gave me as an engagement present.  That's Lola, my old board - she now lives with my brother Josh.

• I don't miss living in Hawaii, but I sure miss living near the beach.  Our house was a 5 minute walk from the beach and it made for extraordinarily fun and pleasant days and nights. One evening before dinner the kids were fussing and getting on my nerves, so I took them down to the beach to go for a walk.  It was cool but comfortable, and just beautiful.  The kids immediately perked up and started laughing and running around.  If we end up moving to Australia, we will be by the beach again, which definitely will not suck.
• There are few things cuter than little kids frolicking on the beach.

This is a happy, happy girl.

I love how he's wearing his shoes on the wrong feet.

• On the other hand, there are few things more horrible than traveling with small children.  Everything about the experience -- lugging ridiculous amounts of gear, getting everyone through security, dealing with Josie screaming her face off because she's tired of being strapped in the car seat, the two of them both bursting into tears because they didn't both fit on my lap at the same time, the jet lag -- sucks huge, hairy smelly balls.  But as the nice man on the plane said (and seriously, the one benefit of traveling with unruly children is that people take pity and are so fucking nice to you), "it gets better."  His children, who looked to be about 5 and 7, sat quietly in their seats the entire time and amused themselves with books and videos -- the prospect of my children similarly behaving themselves makes me weep. 
• Even when they're being good, vacations, while fun, are not particularly relaxing with small children around.  For 8 days, they were on me.  Asking for (or demanding) food, toys and attention.  Wanting to sleep with me.  "Mama, I want to snuggle with your face and your boobies and everything," Zeke said.  Before I could even absorb that outrageous statement, Josie yelled, "Snuggle!  SNUGGLE!!" 

But they were awesome.  Josie's language is exploding -- she is suddenly learning so many new words every day and is talking in sentences.  Zeke taught himself how to swim.  The cousins had a great time together.

So it was wonderful.  I got some surfing in.  I hung out with my brothers and my parents and my nieces.

But of course, as ever, I'm so tired.