Heaving a Sigh of Resolution

It's that time of year again, folks. 

Christmas has come and gone and Wendy has gotten fat.  Well, to be truthful, it wasn't solely the fault of Christmas.  It was the months and months and months of eating eating eating eating eating eating without any kind of exercise whatsoever.

Sure, I did the whole C25K thing over the summer: I ran (well, I trotted and walked, but on a scheduled basis) and even partook of some actual 5Ks.  But summer was a long time ago.  And although you might think otherwise, the fitness level of one's body does not just stick around.  No.  You have to encourage it to stay by actually staying active.  Fancy that!  So as the warm weather slithered away into fall, so too did my figure.  Bye-bye!

Thus it is that I am - AGAIN - making "Exercise and Eating Right" my #1 New Year's Resolution.  Luckily, I have about 26 hours before Jan 1 smacks me in the face with the cold hand of Obligation.  So now I'm off to the fridge to seek out and destroy all the desserts I can find.  And by destroy I mean consume, of course.  You didn't think I was actually going to throw them away, did you?  Puh-leeze.

 

Again?

I'm pondering the pros and cons of starting up this blog again. 

Con: It would require effort, and that's not something I have a lot of. 

Pro:

...

Um, still thinking of a pro.

While I mull it over, I'll go look for cookies inspiration.

I Picked a Hell of a Day to Run a 5K

I'm supposed to run my second 5K tomorrow.  And by run I mean limp along at a 15 min/mile pace for a while, then walk a bit, then attempt to 'run' some more and pray that I don't heave up the meager contents of my stomach on the side of the road. 

The first 5K, two weeks ago, was about what I expected.  I finished, but at a snail's pace.  And it involved walking more often than I'd wanted to.  But I didn't puke, which was a pleasant surprise.  I also kind of enjoyed myself, which was another surprise.  A final surprise was losing my headband somewhere along the way.  I had to take a moment to mourn - I liked that headband.

But anyway.  Like a total fool - because kicking my own ass once wasn't enough for the year - I signed up for another 5K.  This race takes place in Ann Arbor, and finishes on the 50 yard line of Michigan Stadium.  Pretty cool, eh?

Well, yes, as it happens.

It will be pretty cool tomorrow.  I think in the 40s at race time.  And possibly raining.  And windy.  And I haven't been feeling so good (chest cold, you know).

At least I will have many valid reasons, besides my own incompetence, for finishing after everyone else goes home for the afternoon.  And I take lots of comfort in that.  Even if I'll be really uncomfortable at the time. You know?

Various Works of Caity

Caity has been taking a Spanish class this summer.  She's enjoyed it a lot and she looooves her teacher.  Today was the last class; I thought it would be nice if Caity made her teacher a Thank You card to properly illustrate her gratitude for the excellence of the experience as well as her devotion to the woman who choreographed the whole thing.
 
So, with Caity's intentions firmly in my mind, I handed her a blank card and asked her to "draw something nice for Ms. Lily."  Then I went away, trusting that Caity would put crayon to paper and produce something appropriate for the occasion, like flowers or a rainbow or some other cute, girly thing.

A while later, noticing that Caity was skipping around and clearly not drawing, I asked if she was done.  She said yes, so I went to investigate the finished product.

This is what I found:

Heaving a sigh, I went to find the artist.

"Can you tell me what's going on in this picture?"  I asked (not in a mean way, like "What's going on here?!" but in a "Wow, I'm really perplexed and I need you to enlighten me" way).  This conversation ensued:

Caity: This is our cat, Ally, wearing a superhero sweater.
Me: And who's this in the corner?
Caity: That's me, yelling, "Allllly!"

I suppose the drawing IS fairly obvious after hearing the explanation.  After all, why wouldn't you use your cat wearing a superhero sweater as a sentiment for a Thank You card?

And then Greg told me this story of something that happened last night, at the park:

Caity was playing with a little girl.  Greg noticed shortly thereafter that Caity had been drawn into a conversation with the girl's caretaker.  After observing for a while, he went over to introduce himself and to rescue the woman to whom Caity was chattering away.  Needless to say, Greg was a little taken aback when the woman said to him, "I heard you moved here from Europe!"  He corrected her, saying, no, we moved from Berkley, and the conversation turned to other, more expected, things.

As they were leaving the park, Greg asked Caity, "Did you tell that lady we came from Europe?"
Caity (matter-of-factly): Yes.
Greg: We're not from Europe.
Caity: Well, where'd we come from before here?
Greg: Berkley.
Caity: Where'd we come from before that?
Greg (omitting that Caity did not, in fact, exist before we lived in Berkley): Chicago.
Caity: Ca-go?  Well, that looks like Europe.

And there you have it.  Caity is an artist with both crayons and words.

Belch

Now, I will be the first one to admit that I tend to burp whilst out in public. It's a terrible habit, and I have every intention of reforming my rude ways.

Unfortunately, it seems to be too late to set a good example for my daughter.

Yesterday, after a quasi-tiring day of trudging around the Day Out With Thomas extravaganza with the kids and Greg's parents, we decided to stop for a bite to eat in Genesee before heading back home.

After endless, pointless debate about the 3 Coney Islands in the small town ("Which one should we go to? This one, or that one? What do they serve there? Which do you think has the best menu?" - all questions that none of us, having never been there before, could possibly answer) , we selected the one that looked the most promising (i.e. the one most likely to meet health department regulations) and piled ourselves into a booth. By this time, I was starving, grouchy and headachy (no different from how I am at any other time, yes, I know). Jamie was full of the dickens and Caity, having ingested a sizable quantity of cotton candy not too much earlier, was acting really annoying herself.

At one point, she let out a huge burp. "Wasn't that an interesting burp?" She asked the table.

"NO." I growled.

"Well, then, you weren't listening", she informed me.

Sucked In

So I am currently experiencing that cosmic phenomenon in which one fully intends to toddle off to bed, but decides (ill-advisedly) to "see what's on TV". And then one carefully searches through the guide to find something appealing. And one inevitably finds something, as one usually does when there are 300+ channels to choose from. And even if one has seen that something 759045 times already, one feels to need to watch it ONE MORE TIME.

The something I have been sucked into tonight is Sleepless in Seattle. Unfortunately, I got sucked in close to the beginning of the movie, which means that quite a bit of time has to elapse before I get to the end. It's far easier when I get sucked in with only 15 minutes remaining in a film. Of course, if that happens, I usually decide to "see what else is on TV" and then the whole process repeats itself. And the clock keeps running, and before I know it, it's midnight. Or, in this case, 10:35 pm.

Other films with a high Suckage factor:

When Harry Met Sally (what IS it about Meg Ryan?)

Ferris Bueller's Day Off

Aliens

Bring It On

Any Star Wars film (episodes IV through VI, clearly, not I-III)

Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead

White Chicks

Steel Magnolias

And the obvious #1 of all time.... Sense and Sensibility


What are the films that suck YOU in? And what time is it before you finally force yourself into bed? What color are your sheets?

My Mouth Should Be Closed, But It's Open In Shock!

I went to the bank today. As I pulled into a parking spot, a dude on a motorcycle pulled up right next to me. (I'd like to say it was a bad-ass Harley, but as I wouldn't be able to correctly identify a Harley even if I was being plowed over by one , we'll just have to go with "motorcycle"). This gentleman had a helmet on, of course - even if he wanted to give himself a severe head injury by falling off his bike at a high rate of speed, the state of Michigan forces him to at least pretend to protect his skull. Anyhew, I couldn't help but notice that he had numerous decals plastered all over said helmet. One of them in particular made me catch my breath with scandalized horror. It said:

If Your Not Into Oral Sex, Keep Your Mouth Closed.

Can you believe that?

Someone actually wants to display that for all to see?

I mean, come on! That tacky decal clearly utilizes the wrong form of "You're".

Revolting.

A Breath of Fresh Air

I decided to revamp my blog a little. What do you think? Do you find that my words have a whole new tone with the calming green in the background? How 'bout the little flowers? Does seeing them make your soul take wing?

Okay, okay, I admit it. I still can't think of anything to write about. The creative center of my brain is a dark, vacant, blood-spattered place cordoned off with "Police Line Do Not Cross" tape. I think I have become intimidated by all of those women who are out there writing blogs that are better-written and more well-read than mine. I'm an amateur who knows nothing about anything, has a random, unsponsored blog, and who has three readers (whom I love dearly, of course). There are bigger and better powerhouses out there. In fact, thousands of FemBloggers are going to take NYC by storm in a couple of weeks when they all arrive to attend a conference just for women bloggers! And they have business cards for their blogs and everything! How will I ever get my famous, best-selling novel published when these hordes of women are out there, taking their writing seriously and getting themselves noticed?

It's enough to make one want to shut down, huddle down on the couch and eat a lot of cookies. Not that I don't eat a lot of cookies anyway, mind you. It's just now I feel the need to eat more.

Perhaps it would help if I actually started writing the famous, best-selling novel. Instead of hoping that it will write itself...?

Never Fear!

I'm still here. I just need to find time to write. I'll be back soon.

Another Occasion to Curse My Lack of Brain

Over the weekend I was painfully aware that I was not writing any blog posts. I can't explain it - I suppose I felt a need to satisfy the cravings of my three loyal readers, even if said readers are too polite to tell me that really, they can get by without a post from me. Really. ...But I told myself, "It's the weekend! Give your hard-working brain a rest". So I did, whilst eating a lot of ice cream. Then Monday came and went without me writing anything and I was stressing even more than before. Why? You ask. This isn't homework. There's no due date. True, and true. So I don't know what my issue is. But you, dear readers, certainly benefit from my as-yet-undiagnosed problem, as here I am again, back at the keyboard and ready to bring you something really amazing.

Another Safety Town update.

Okay, before you ask - yes, I've been remembering my blue square every day like a good little mommy. I have a new concern. Or, rather, the Safety Town people have a new concern with ME.

At some point last week, a hand-written note was sent home. It read:

Need to work on address and phone number.

Now, I know that part of this whole Safety Town gig is having the kids know what to do in times of trouble, such as when their mother distractedly leaves them in the Target parking lot and the child needs to seek out a Police Officer and ask him/her for assistance in getting home. A vital part of this scenario would be the child tearfully informing the officer: "My address is..." Hence, it would be helpful if Caity actually knew her address. So the next, most obvious step would be that I immediately forgot about the note and went about my daily routine (Facebook, staring at walls, etc).

A couple of days later, another note was sent home. It read:

Parents of Caitlin: Work on address and phone number.

This was slightly more authoritative, as it actually directed a command to the adults in the household. O-kay! We would get cracking on that address stuff pronto.

Fast-forward to yesterday morning at 8:53, when I remembered that we'd never actually worked on the address and phone number stuff. I had really good intentions. I mean, I thought about it a lot. We know how well that works. Oops.

Thus it was as we drove to Safety Town 30 min later, I drilled Caity on the numbers in our address: "The first number is 3. Can you remember that? What is it? Okay, good. The next number is 1. Tell me both numbers. Are you ready for the next one?" And so on. As we ran into the building, I was practically shouting. "Now what's the street name? No, not Michigan! That's the state!" And so on until I left her in the classroom. And then I promptly forgot about it. Again. (This would be a good time for you to wonder to yourself, 'What the hell is wrong with Wendy? Her kids are going to get lost, not have any clue what their address is, and be totally screwed.')

So I was not surprised when this afternoon, at Pick-Up, one of the teen helpers came with Caity out into the hallway. "Caity really needs to work on her address and phone number," the girl informed me.

What could I do? I hung my head in shame.

I Know I Can't Let This Go, But...

... I have to share a small story from Safety Town again.

Confidently walking towards the building for Pick-Up, my square securely cradled in my purse (where it now lives, never to be removed), I was met by several other moms also on their way in. I had a hard time stifling my mirth when two of them suddenly stopped in their tracks. One, white-faced, simply turned and retraced her steps back to her car. The other cried aloud, "I forgot the square!" and raced back to fetch it.

So, no, I am not the only one to know the fear that the lack of the square can bring to one's heart.

Then I went to a garage sale.

Okay, I went to TWO garage sales.

And then I went to Target. I managed to spend only $16.17 (and yes, I went and looked at the receipt just now - it's important to be accurate with such details). Can you credit it? That's a British expression that I've always wanted to use. If you're not so good with context clues, it means, more or less, "Can you believe it?" It's really a marvel. Usually a trip to Target results in an automatic droppage of at least 50 bucks. I think, by saving $33.83 (yes, I had to use a calculator), I have earned the right to spend at least that much at another store as a reward. Wouldn't you say?

Well, if you don't say, then just keep your mouth shut.

The News You Were Waiting For...

I know my three loyal readers are eagerly awaiting the next installment of the Safety Town saga.

Did I remember The Square today?

As a matter of fact... I did.

I'm sure you feel a little let down. You were probably hoping that I forgot again - you wanted to see what they would do to me.

Sorry to disappoint.

In other, totally not related news, we went to the Oakland County 4H fair this afternoon. The fairgrounds were a comfortable 678 degrees, with the midway laid out over a bed of dusty gravel that did little to add any sense of coolness to the atmosphere. After spending a mere $20 for tickets for the kids to enjoy 2.5 rides each, we trudged through the crowds in a fruitless attempt to find a ride that Jamie could actually go on without needing numerous adults to tag along with him. We settled for a poor imitation of a Dumbo flying elephant ride. By this time the kids were both so dazed from the hot sun and overexposure to carnies that they climbed into the elephants listlessly and rode around without any comment.

It was here that I was able to observe my favorite fair patrons of the day. A grizzled-looking, middle-aged mother with her two teen-ish daughters walked by. One of the girls sported a t-shirt which read, "Uncle Dick's Club for Lusty Girls". As she passed us she whined to her mother, "I wanna go to the beer tent!"

Splendid.

Slacker Mom!

Caity is enrolled in Safety Town this week and next. It's basically a 2-hour-a-day, 9-day class about how to stop at stop signs and watch out for cars bearing down on you and not talk to strangers and other such "try to keep yourself alive in case Mommy isn't paying attention" behavior. I think she enjoys it; I enjoy whittling my child load down to one every morning. It's very freeing. It's amazing how trips to Target (the thrice-weekly sojourns that they are) are much easier to tolerate when there's only one kid whining for a sucker/toy/freedom from the cart. Anyhow, I digress.

Drop-Off and Pick-Up (capitalized because they are clearly Procedures of Importance) at Safety Town are a crazed mass of moms, Safety-Towners, and various, unquantifiable siblings. Dropping off is shuffling one's way to the front of the mile-long line, depositing one's kid with a teacher, and then fleeing. Picking up, however, is a more rigorous process. At the start of the week, each mom was given a laminated square of blue construction paper with a colored sticker on it. Each mom was also given a neon-yellow sheet of paper that says (and I am copying this word-for-word off of the sheet that I got out of the trash so I could share it with you), "PARENTS: YOU OR WHOMEVER IS PICKING UP YOUR STUDENT MUST HAVE THE RECTANGLE CARD EVERYDAY!" Ever the obedient one, and a little frightened of the implied evil consequences that awaited if I failed to comply, I made sure to have the square (it's not a rectangle, really) with me at pick up yesterday. But today. Oh, my. I must have been preoccupied with thoughts of the McSmoothie I'd just purchased because

I.
Forgot.
The.
Square.

I realized my error just as I made it to the head of the Pick-Up line. Swiftly, I removed my driver's license from my wallet and brandished it at the teacher working the door. "I forgot my square, "I said hurriedly, "but here's my license." The teacher frowned, looked gravely into my eyes, and sighed. She paused, just enough for me to fully realize my heinous error, then asked in a surly tone, "What's your child's name?" I cringed, but told her, and she stalked off to fetch Caity.

Tomorrow I will be sure to remember the square. I can't imagine being a repeat offender is a pleasant experience.

Resurrection?

Someone presented me with this query last night: "Whatever happened to 'bloggerdroozle'?" Sadly, it is well known that this blog died a quiet death sometime in January. But it made me ponder - did I have the faith, and the power, to resurrect my journey of words? I suppose I could try. Perhaps this time I will find something - anything? - interesting to write about. Not today, though. Apparently.

Oops.

Falling behind again.

Developments!

I think Jamie may be talking more. "More" as in "more English", I mean. He has been talking all along, but not saying anything a normal human could understand. If he DID speak English, it would really only be to repeat a single word that someone else had just said (luckily, a curse word was never the single word that he would hear/repeat, although how he managed to escape those still perplexes me, given the amount of exposure he has to them). Now, however, he will string two (or more!) words together without hearing someone else say them first. It's a breakthrough!

Here are some example conversations:

Me: Where is your sock?
Jamie: Sock downstairs.

Greg (trying to corral kids into the bathtub): Come on, let's go!
Jamie: Caity! Caity! Bath!

And this is the best one (so far), from tonight:

Me (hearing a voice outside) : Shhh. I think I hear something.
Jamie: A noise? The noise is Daddy.

Seriously. Sometimes he can get crazy like that and put 4 words together! Chances are high that anyone else would not understand what he's saying, but I understand him and he's saying actual words!

My triumph is somewhat nauseating, I know. But I've been waiting so long for this moment...

Random, Disturbing Thoughts

Can you believe that Ferris Bueller's Day Off was released 23 years ago? I remember begging my dad to let us see that in the theater (it was rated PG-13; Dad had to carefully consider whether or not he wanted to expose his under-13 children to the adult themes sure to present themselves in the film).

Wandering around life, doing day-to-day things, I don't really feel that old. But when I ponder random trivia like this, and think about where it falls in the timeline of my life, I feel ancient.

I graduated from high school in 1993. That seems like it was only a few years ago. But ah-ha! do the math and 1993 was somehow seventeen years ago. How is that possible???? Let's see: if I'm 34 now, and graduated when I was 17, that means HALF OF MY LIFE has gone by since graduation. Where did it all go? What did I do with the past 17 years?


Argh.

Welcome, 2010!

I am going to post to this blog every day this year.

Really, I am!

Probably.

Most likely.

We'll see.