When I was sick last week I had a one of those naps that you fall into a deep, deep sleep. I had such a vivid and telling dream, it’s actually kind of funny to think that my psyche has hit me over the head with this message. I won’t bore you with the details, but the dream had me floating from domestic scene to domestic scene, from work scene to social scene, and in ALL the scenes I was driving my mini-van, blubbering “but I don’t want to be the driver, I want to be the passenger!”
I took this as a cue to stop and chill a little bit. A trip to the doctor re-enforced the idea that I need to slow down. Hey, I know I’m not special. I know everyone is going through this right now, and it’s a crummy feeling. But, since my little health crisis, this week I have implemented a few changes, and I actually feel pretty good and energized. What changes did I make? Here they are:

1) Be in bed by 9:30 – 10:00.
2) Only go out socially 2x a week, once with hubby, once with friends.
3) Commit ½ hour a day 4x a week to exercise (get a sweat-on exercise).
4) Walk at lunch everyday.
5) Say no if I think it’s too much for me to take on.
6) Fruits and veggies.
7) Not worry so much about all food groups being represented a dinner time (seriously, I can get a little uptight about stuff like this!)
8) Refuse to be intimidated.
9) Not procrastinate stuff, just do it.
10) Buy a new pair of boots...

Well, maybe number 10 wasn’t entirely necessary, but the other nine seem to be helping me out. It scares me that at 35 I was feeling so out of whack and stressed out and run down. I’m sure I’ll have more moments of complete stress, but it is nice to know that I can be in control of how I feel.

Now, back to item 10. The boots. My God, the boots. They are black, velvety looking. They have the pointiest toes that are legal. They go up to just past my ankles, they are platforms and the heel measures in at 4 ½ inches. The Olsen twins would want to be seen with me with these puppies on. I may post pictures, but they are so sexy they may be considered inappropriate to view in the work place.

Meanie’s Monday

I suck at sports. I am not graceful, I trip a lot and I feel like I have too many limbs. I was never chosen first for team sports at school. I was chosen last, along with the smattering of rejects nobody wanted on their team. And when everyone in the neighborhood signed up for softball, I did too (glutton for punishment I was), and I was always stuck out in left field, with everyone praying the ball wouldn’t come to me. I was never coordinated enough to catch the ball, and if by some miracle I did, when it came time to throw it back in-field, my wrist would become quite affected and limp and the ball would travel a mighty distance of two feet.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom though. I was good at running (not a pretty sight, but I was fast) and I was also on our community swim team. With swimming, I was always chosen for the relay race. I was a star, and I have medals and ribbons to prove it. I have to explain though. My lack of coordination made the front crawl quite difficult for me. I looked like a robot mid-gear shift gasping for air when doing the crawl. With the back crawl, I’d always be surprised when my head would hit the wall and I’d look around and see that I had crossed the pool diagonally rather than lengthwise. And the butterfly? There are no words to describe the horror of watching me do the butterfly. In fact, I’ve had a life guard try and save me thinking that my flailing was drowning rather than me executing a most difficult stroke. There was an exception though. My breast stroke was phenomenal. In races, I would SMOKE my opponents. And for relays, there was probably some element of surprise when they saw I wasn’t doing the front crawl. I was always put in as the last swimmer, the one to catch us up and get us to the finish line first. I may have looked like a frog on crystal meth, but I always pulled through for the team.

Did you shine at anything when you were growing up? Or did you exceptionally suck at anything?

I've been so sick! Stomach flu! Head cold chest cold flu-like symptoms! Gaaack! Don't worry, I'm okay, just really pathetic and full of self-pity (from which I have learned, family members assume if you feel sorry for yourself, there is no need for them to feel sorry for you as well).

Soooo, instead of Meanie Monday, we'll do Weanie Wednesday.....(I'm stuffed up, so it kinda sounds like that anyways).

Things that my parents told me/have done to me that still haunt me to this day:

1) If I pick at my scabs, a big red line will go from the scab to my heart, and I will have to get a big needle in my bum.

2) Tomato cans, soup cans, all cans are DEADLY SHARP DO NOT TOUCH I REPEAT DO NOT TOUCH!!!! (I still get a little scared when I have to deal with opening a can).

3) It's not good to bring warm water to a boil. Only cold water will do.

4) The soundtrack to Endless Love is innapropriate and the record sleeve pictures are pornagraphic.

5) My parents picking me up early from a birthday party when they heard that Porky's was the featured movie of the night.

6) My dad driving me and some very cool punk rock friends to a punk gig one night, called the band we were seeing "Stinky Socks" (it was actually GBH we were seeing).

7) My Mom, visiting me at university, upon seeing a boy putting the moves on me, announces to the table in a shrill voice: "He takes liberties with my daughter!" (why yes, my mom is from the Shakepearean era).

8) Again, my mom, using the words panties and slacks, liberally, and instead of saying Tiger says Tager.

I bring this up because today I used #1 on Grace after a vigorous scab picking session. It's a slippery slope from here folks.

Did your parents scar you with their strange notions?

Sleep is being compromised in our house due to a sudden influx of monsters in our home. We have secured the house with deadbolts, closed windows, waved magic monster-away wands around, installed a monster laser (cleverly disguised as a Cinderella night-light) and they still manage to find their way in. They seem to prevail at 03:30 hrs. The one thing that seems to repel the monsters is our bedroom. Perhaps the sound of Jo’s snoring scares them, or the combined dragon breath of two adults keeps them away. Edie has discovered this safety zone and will not budge until the monsters retreat (approximately 07:30 hrs).
God help all you all.

Meanie’s Monday

Whaaa? It’s Monday already? What little piece of mundane can I entertain you with today?

I know, a scaawwweeyyy story.

I grew up with a ghost in my house. Yup, a real “live” ghost. I felt her, but never saw her. Only the men-folk in the family ever saw her. My dad, my uncle, my grandfather, I can’t remember if my brother ever saw her. Even construction workers saw her. She always appeared at the same doorway, which was the entry way to her old bedroom. Story goes that she passed away in her bedroom, of pneumonia. She lived with her sisters. They were spinster sisters. My dad always told me that he had a very kind vibe from her (vibe being my word, I don’t think the work “vibe” is in my dad’s vocabulary!) and every time he saw her, he would try and make eye contact with her. She would always disappear as he reached her eyes. Strange, no? I wish I hadn’t been so scared of her, but I was petrified. I was so scared to be in that house alone. I remember when I was home alone I would either wait up for my parents, or, I would close my eyes and race past that doorway to the stairs to go up to my room. Friends would come over and they would have the willies, one friend even insists that she felt like someone was trying to push her down the stairs! Other friends wanted desperately to hold a séance or do a ouijia board in our house, which I flat out refused to do – you just don’t mess with that stuff.
Once, when upstairs in the guest room, my grandfather says he saw a woman holding hands with a young child. A ghost-mother with her ghost-child. I’ve heard this before; that ghosts often pass through ghost-friendly houses. This must be what he saw.
My parents are still in the house, but my dad has not see “her” in years. She must have found her happy place.
Do you believe in ghosts?

End of my friday, after 2 lovely Guiness. Edie kept insisting that she had new little fuckers on her arm. I just could not figure out what she was saying until Grace came to my rescue - apparently, when *some* three year olds say freckles it sounds like "fuckers". Ha!

My reality versus their’s…

Their reality includes bounding out of bed in the morning with 11 hours of sleep tucked under their belt, ready to take on the day.My reality never involves bounding of any kind – it usually involves hitting the snoozebutton 5 times and never really feeling rested after a broken 7 hours sleep.

Their reality includes being thrilled with taking a “morning candy” (vitamin. My reality includes grabbing the Tylenol in the morning to ease a sore neck and/or back.

Their reality includes being tickled that they get to see their FWIENDS! at daycare and spend the whole day playing, laughing, singing, dancing and having fun. My reality includes going to work and, well, I don’t experience any singing, dancing OR playing! (hmmmm, maybe I should start?)

Their reality includes coming home and relaxing with their toys while their dinner is being made. My reality includes coming home and starting my second job of the day.

Their reality includes being bathed, having lotion applied by expert hands, sometimes having a light massage, having a book or two read to them, taking in a light snack, and finally, tucked into a bed with clean sheets, sometimes having to be convinced that going to bed is a good thing. My reality includes doing laundry, having a quick shower, sometimes shoving some chips into my mouth while watching bad reality t.v. and collapsing into bed, falling asleep mid-chapter.

Sigh. I wanna be a kid again.

SIDENOTES:

-Girls dental appt. yesterday - no cavities! And no mention of Edie's soother habit. Phew, dodged the bullet again on that one. And, Grace won't have to go through this again, for now.

-I'm reading Memory Keeper's Daughter - GASP! what an intense book. I'd even rather read right now than watch bad reality t.v.

-Where have all the babysitters gone? We used to have a pretty good roster going, and now, try and find one for Saturday night, fuggedaboutit!

Meanie’s Mondays

Okay, so with little to say, I have decided that on Mondays I will turn the spotlight on me and provide my fawning masses with details about moi. Because I will run out of things to say about myself in, oh, about 2 installments, I welcome you ask questions about me that may be keeping you up at night.

And so, let us being what will surely be a timeless classic. Welcome to Meanie’s Monday First Installment: The Tale of Schultzie.

My nickname is Schultzie. I have been lovingly referred to as Schultzie for about 33 years now. This nickname came about when a show I have never seen before was popular on t.v., called Hogan’s Heroes. Apparently, there was a fat, bald general named Schultz. And, because at two years old, I bore a striking resemblance to this General Schultz, the family thought it fitting that they call me Schultzie. A bout with bulimia and a few hair plugs later, I have come to terms with this nickname (KIDDING!) However, the nickname stuck, and even my husband rarely calls me Meanie, (only if he’s REALLY mad) and he has turned it into his own Yiddish version, calling me Yultzie (and no, he’s not even Jewish).

And so, that is the story of my nickname.

Mazel Tov!

Karma baby!

Bear with me, this is a story about Karma – potentially yawn inducing to some, but will make some think twice about missing an opportunity to do a good deed.

We were returning from cottage country late Monday afternoon – a little(lot) hungover, tired and dirty. Just itching to get home and get re-settled. As we were barreling down the dirt road, we saw a huge transport truck (highly unusual for this road) pulled over. We stopped and asked him what’s up, and he was looking for an address. We told him it was just down yonder, and went on our way. For about two minutes. Before we realized that there was no way our big truck driving friend would make it down the road, and there would be no way for him to turn around his big ass truck. He would be screwed. Jo and I looked at each other and gave each other the nod to turn around and tell him so (much to the girls excitement, “What’s going on? Where are we going? Who is that man? Are we going back to the cottage? Can I have a cracker?”) We caught up to him, pulled him over, told him to back his ass up and get a smaller truck. After many thanks from him, we went on our separate ways…until we heard him honking and trying to pull us over. He let us know that we had a MASSIVE flat rear tire. With all cell phones/blackberries drained, and the rain starting to fall, Jo’s accountant hands were about to get intimate with a jack and a donut tire. That is, until a happy little man came bouncing out of the house we were stopped outside of. “Don’t worry about anything, I will take care of everything” were his exact words. Huh? Who is this dude? Turns out this dude was a licensed mechanic and was equipped to patch our tire (with his LAST patch I might add), refill it with the AIR COMPRESSOR he just happens to keep in his shed, and also find our, at this point, somewhat annoying children endearing because, alas, he just changed professions and became a school teacher for the JK to grade 5 demographic. How is that for Karma?

The patched tire should last us a few months (until September, when were planning on getting new ones).
Jo and I traveled home with a smile on our faces with thoughts of our good deed, and the good deed done to us.
The girls got their crackers.