Just a Word of Advice

If you're extremely sensitive to caffeine, and foolishly decide at 10 pm to eat the last slice of Bittersweet Chocolate Flour-less Cake, it would be wise after still lying awake at 1:30 am, to heed the sage advice from your husband when he suggests taking a sleep aid. And then, after retorting* "YOUR MOM should take some Melatonin," you should not stalk into the bathroom and decide to trim your bangs. You might walk out looking like a person hopped up on caffeine who picked up some scissors and went to town...with their eyes closed. And then, after becoming 50% distraught over your new insane-asylum-patient look and 50% distraught over the fact that you actually don't really care that much and why don't you care because you should care and what does this say about yourself and why are you so lame lately, you should not lie awake until 5 am watching Youtube videos of Korean girls trimming their bangs.

*Tena, if you're reading this, I wasn't specifically talking about YOU. This is a joke 30-somethings say to each other as a sassy and extremely intelligent and mature comeback, along the lines of "I know you are but what am I?" to shut the other person up. But let's be honest, you probably really should take a Melatonin.

2005 Called. They Want Their Shorts Back.

I still own an item of clothing I bought back before May was born that looks like this:

Long, brown, corduroy, gaucho-style shorts that go down like an inch or two below my knee caps. Some real lookers, especially with my unusually short legs. Really, there probably wasn't a more UN-flattering piece of clothing I could have worn. A flesh-colored mu-mu would have made me look better than these shorts did. And I think there were a couple of times when I even wore them with suede plum-colored lace up Camper boots. Arr, Matey. Shiver me timbers.

I have a looong list of projects I'd like to dive into but Etsy orders, though I'm grateful for them, have taken over my sewing machine time. But I'd like to try my hand at tailoring--I've never done anything like that before and I'd like to see if I can make these into something wearable rather than throw them away or risk getting snickered at if I donated them to the Salvation Army.

Tailoring these shorts so that they are fitted instead of (gulp) wide legged and taking them up to a normal Bermuda-short length is what I'd like to do with them, besides use them has a handkerchief while I look back at old photos of me actually wearing these beasts.

1000th Post: Operation Tidy Kids

For my 1000th post, I thought I'd do something I normally wouldn't do: Air some dirty laundry. Yay! Scandal!

I am not a naturally neat and tidy person. My brain is a chaotic mess, therefore, that is what springs forth out of me--a chaotic mess. Simply put, as a generalization, we know that left-brained people are nice and neat and right-brained people are a hot mess. I blame my natural untidiness on ADD and the fact that the right side of my brain is like Andre the Giant and my left is like Nacho Libre's wimpy sidekick Esquelito (partially because he is a weakling and partially because he believes in science.) My brain really likes wrestling, apparently.

That being said, over the past 10 years, I've made major strides in this area and I'm proud of that. It's been really really hard and something I struggle with on a daily basis. It sounds lame, but it goes against every grain in my body to put something away right after I've used it. Why? Because I'm already using something else and have forgotten about the first thing I was doing. You slow down, you die. So I'm constantly making conscious efforts to look around me and pick up my trail of bread crumbs. At lengths of time, I do a great job. And other times, it's tiring and I'm back to my old ways.

All this wouldn't be an issue if I hadn't married some who teeters on the edge of OCD. I won't go into specifics but Go is uber neat and precise and everything he does is done with surgical precision. Trust me, if you ever need some sort of plastic surgery, you want him to be the one sewing you up.

So, like I said, sometimes I go great stretches of time where everything is kept clean and I keep on top of things and the girls and their messes without a problem. But lately, I've fallen off of the tidy wagon. And because of this, so have my kids. Their room, the basement where they keep all of their toys, their art cabinet, the bathroom after they've spent all of 30 seconds in it, are left looking like ground zero until I go in and have them clean these places. The response I get 95% of the time is the five stages of grief with tears, howling, writhing, flailing, wailing and gnashing of teeth thrown in. It's ridiculous and has only gotten worse and because of this our home lately has spun out of control. This has caused some...friction...even though Go tries to be extra tolerant of me and my messy episodes and does his best to help the girls be neat. I'm pretty sure he believes he deserves a shiny platinum medal for his tolerance. But the tolerance has run out. The girls negative responses to our simple requests to clean their messes and my poor example of cleanliness have gone on long enough, apparently.

It all came to a head last night after our house had been messy for several weeks--the girls messes especially. He had talked with me several times and asked what I was doing during the day to help teach them clean up better or help change their outlook on cleanliness but I didn't have any real answers for him. So in order to have a happier home, he took it upon himself and implemented a plan.

All of the art supplies, all of the toys, save for some paper, a box of crayons each, their books and a selection of 5 toys each will be locked in the basement closet. As they are able to keep these small selection of toys/art supplies cleaned up each day, they will slowly earn back their toys and art supplies.

As he presented this plan to us, I felt side swiped. We hadn't discussed this. I imagined 2 bored, hence, bickering girls on my hands all summer long.

And without an abundance of art supplies. The nerve.

I was livid.

I've cooled off some, but I'm still sort of mad. I've never been mad at him for more than maybe 30 minutes. We're going on about 24 hours now. We're on the downward slope, though.

So today, because I respect and support my husband (said through clenched teeth) and the honest desire to have a happier and cleaner home, I followed his plan: put everything in the closet, threw away a bunch of stuff and had the girls make their selections.

Even though I feel like this isn't my campaign, pairing down and simplifying felt good. And our house is currently totally void of any of the girls' messes. Because of this, I haven't had to deal with any cleanliness melt-downs from anyone.

Um, you know what?

As much as I hate to admit it, I think this might work. The guy might be a freaking genius.

An Addendum to My Previous Post

Just in case you were under the impression that because we have a vase filled with peonies in our front room, our house must be oh, so civilized and filled with the utmost of decorum, I'll make you privy to the following conversation I just heard between my first and second eldest:

Ruby: Hey, May. Punch me the face.
May: Why?
Ruby: Because I want to see what it feels like.
May: You want me to punch hard?
Ruby: Yah. As hard as you can.
(*punch*)
Both girls: Ow!
(laughter)

Isn't this what drunk guys do to each other?

DoomsDay Debbie

Do you ever feel like your life is floating along rather nicely, almost too quietly; that there's bound to be some sea creature lurking around, getting ready to pop up? This isn't leading into a dramatic story or a pregnancy announcement (because I know how your minds work, you sillies) or anything of the sort. It's just that things are pretty mellow around here but the cynic in me is expecting that catastrophe to slam into us any minute. Well, thaaaaat's healthy.

B.C. and A.C.

Pictured on the left: B.C. = before cruise
Pictured on the right: A.C. = after cruise

B.C.:
-I work out about 3 times a week, mostly spin/cardio.
-I eat whatever. I don't pig out but there's not a whole lot of restricting going on, either.
-I eat before I go to bed.
-I don't drink much water.
-I don't get enough sleep.
-I don't take vitamins.
-I don't eat enough vegetables.
-I don't eat enough fiber.
This makes for a tired, cranky, untoned-upper bodied 140 pound girl with bloodshot eyes and bad skin.

Cruise: Last hurrah.

A.C.:
-I work out 5-6 times a week, with a balance of spin/cardio and lifting. P90X.
-I eat healthy, small portions. South Beach diet.
-I close the kitchen after dinner.
-I drink crazy amounts water.
-I get 7-8 hours of sleep.
-I take my vitamins.
-I eat a lot of vegetables.
-I eat a lot fiber.
This plan makes for an alert, happy, toned-upper bodied 125/130 pound girl with clear eyes and glowing skin.

I hate to say it because I need to be fired up for my new way of life A.C., but I am SO looking forward to my last hurrah next week, basking in my last lazy B.C. days.

Scarred for Life

When I was about 13 or 14, an Olympic swimming coach came to my Dad's health club and taught a swimming workshop for teens. I wasn't the fastest swimmer and always the last one off the block ("but always the farthest one out once she did jump off the block," my Mom is always quick to add. Thanks, viking quads!) so I took the opportunity and went. My Dad swam laps on one side of the pool while I "workshopped" with the coach.
"My, what viking-like quads you have, miss."
"Why, thank you, Olympic Coach!"
After I swam and the coach stood around stating the obvious, I got out of the pool and dried off. My Dad was already done and inside the gym at this point. I remember looking at the back of the building and seeing four unmarked doors--I swear they were unmarked. It was like the health club was so pretentious that you should just KNOW what door to go through because you are apart of the elite. If you didn't know what door to go through, you shouldn't be there in the first place. Be gone, day-pass street urchins. I decided to go through the door on the far left. That was SO the wrong door to open. It was the door to the men's locker room. I stood there in the doorway, stunned for about 10 seconds, my mouth agape at the sight of 4 elderly naked men, toweling off in a cloud of steam. All of a sudden, my Dad appeared right in front of me. "What are you doing in here?" and he sort of turned me around and led me and my viking quads out the door and pointed me towards the next door over--the ladies locker room. Unfortunately, the scene is forever seared into my retinas. I've stated that there was a time in college that I never wanted to get married--this experience may had something to do with that.
Today, my girls had a similar experience. We were at Costco and they had to use the restroom. I had a cart full of stuff and Olive strapped in the front, so I parked right outside of the bathroom and let the girls go in by themselves. I don't know how it's set up at your Costco, but at ours, it's like one big main entrance, with the women's side on the left, the men's on the right. It took me a couple of minutes and several bewildered men walking quickly out of the bathroom, checking the sign and heading back in to realize that my girls were indeed doing their business in the men's room. Not a proud parenting moment. Thankfully, they were secured inside a stall, with their retinas protected from the reality on the other side of the door at the urinals.

Five Tids and Bits

1. I ran in a 5K this morning. Though my time was laughable and I was embarrassed by the the varieties of the demographics of those who passed me, I never stopped running, which was my ultimate goal. I really should have trained beforehand. Maybe next time.






















2. Does anyone else's kids get increasingly difficult, over-emotional, and even more demanding than usual as the summer winds down? Hm. School starts Monday. Breathe deep.









3. I have a very mysterious rash on my hands. It looks like a chemical burn or maybe I sprayed my hands with something that acted like a sunburn propellant because in a spotty, spray-like pattern, it's darker than the rest of my skin and has started to peel and blisters whenever I work out. It's weird. I asked a derm guy about it and he said "Hm...looks like dermatitis." Gee. Thanks. He apparently forgot I was a resident's wife and I'm fully aware that "dermatitis" is a fancy blanket-term for rashes, all rashes, any rash at all. So even our smart, nice derm friend doesn't know. And YOUR WELCOME for not including a picture of a way nasty rash.

4. Go performed two reconstructive surgeries on a good friend of our's face last week. These were officially his first surgeries done on someone we know, per her request. I don't blame her. If I had to have anyone I know sew me up, it would be Go. Yes, he's mine but he is a detail-oriented, thoughtful, careful, steady-handed artist-genius boy.








5. It's almost September. But still August. Nevertheless, every year since I moved away from CA, it's around this time I start having anxiety about the impending winter season. I really, really wish I didn't do this. I used to think if I could change one thing about myself, it would be my nose. Then I accepted it's girth and focused my dissatisfaction elsewhere: to my ankles, but then I started working out regularly and they slimmed down a bit. Now I'd definitely be eliminating my seasonal depression.

Or maybe chewing my gum in less a horse-like fashion.

It's a toss up.

Recent Ponderings on Things of Angst

Lately I'm having a hard time with:

-My children growing older: I just put away Olive's newborn clothes and brought out the next size up. Sad. And May is so not my baby anymore, which is also sad. And I worry for Ruby as she ages, mainly her self esteem. As she's gotten older, she isn't as sure of herself as I think she deserves to be and because I don't know what else to blame it on, I blame myself but without a real reason. Raising girls is scary. Insights on raising well adjusted, happy, secure girls are welcomed and encouraged.

-Go's schedule: long hours, tired bones, missed dinners, lots of studying, not a lot of time with him. Sick to death of it. I miss him.

-Keeping my house clean: I can't seem to keep up with my kids' wake of utter destruction. I feel like all I do is bark at them to clean up their messes. And clean. And bark. And clean some more...without anything actually getting clean.

-Losing the baby weight: it's slooooow going. Not back into my jeans nor most of my skirts yet. Kind of bitter about that.

-Finding no time for hobbies: I'm actually ok with this one. My arts and sewing and silly do-dads are better for when I'm cooped up inside during winter anyway.

-Training for an upcoming 5K: yes. Training for a 5K. Pathetic. But my body doesn't know how to run and fights me every step of the way. And lately it's especially screaming "NO!" everytime I start so much as trot. I think I'm just really, really exhausted between extreme sleep deprivation, nursing Olive, and teaching spin/working out as hard as I have been, to get on that tread mill and try to hit the marks I've set for myself...it's just not happening.

-Trying to be grateful for having the many things I need (and more) and trying not to need the many things I want: is fighting materialism as much of a constant battle for everyone else as it is for me?

This Morning's Epiphany

There was this time about, oh, 4 or 5 years ago back when we were living in Iowa--Go was teaching Sunday School and for some reason, and I swear it had to do something with the lesson because Go is quite a good teacher/public speaker, he, without thinking obviously, publicly divulged a secret of mine I had been hording from the good people of our Iowa ward: that I was addicted to the show COPS and had been for years. When he said this, he waited just a beat, letting his words sink into the skulls of his audience, just like any good public speaker does when letting out juicy information about their spouse, I guess...

An eerie silence passed over the small congregation. All eyes turned to me, stunned and wide. And then collectively, everyone's brain waves joined together and somewhere from another dimension, out of the atmosphere, Dueling Banjos began playing, my metal folding chair turned into a mildewy lawn-couch, my tasteful Banana Republic tweed brown skirt turned into greasy-stained jean short cut-offs and suddenly, I was holding an economy sized bag of Cheet-os in one hand and the leash of a three legged blind dog in the other. I felt stripped of my dignity. How dare he divulge my inner white trashiness? The nerve! Needless to say, we had words after class.

But here's what blogging for almost three years does to you: you announce to the general population that you just dug through your disgusting, gross trash and that your baby's car seat has had mouse poop in it. So much for inner white trash.

Blogger, what have you done to me?

P.S. - I still really like COPS. And I always will.

Twinners

We've all heard that everyone has a "twin" or someone who looks exactly like them, just walking around out there, right? I mentioned this theory a couple of days ago to my friend, saying that her sister-in-law--a family friend's wife (I'm talking about YOU Tori B.) has a twin who is a Continental Airlines flight attendant. And a mighty fine one, I might add. She doted on us for our entire 5 hour flight.

I get told I look exactly like random people all the time; it's bizarre how much it happens. Though they are never, ever celebrities or super models (Shocking! I know, right?) and always people I have never met, I still get a strange thrill when I get told by the lesbian who's munching on tropical trail mix while standing in line for the bathroom at the Chevron station in Baker, California (located next to the Mad Greek Cafe and The World's Largest Thermometer! (which is actually in no way way a thermometer, but a glorified marquee)) that I am the spitting image of her niece. Or my friend, who after a trip to Denmark, proclaimed that my second self rides around Copenhagen on an orange bicycle with a wicker basket. Or the time that our med school buddy flagged down the wrong girl in the hallway of the University of Iowa Hospital and Clinics after tailing her for awhile, convinced that it was me. Apparently Joe, an elderly man who hangs out at the gym, has a daughter and I remind him of her so much that it almost makes him want to come to my spin class but I play my music "just too darn loud." I once walked into a party at a house in the hills of Salt Lake City, greeted by a glittery woman doused in perfume who embraced me, exclaiming "Devore!" It took several minutes to convince her that I was not Devore, but a girl named Annie and no, I wasn't related to Devore and in fact, did not even know who this Devore was. She's lovely, I'm sure.


Several years ago I found myself in an eerie situation. I was in a smoky bar seated on a couch abutted to a small stage decorated with Christmas lights, waiting to watch some live music. Across the room was another couch piled with other twenty-somethings. Smack dab in the middle was a girl who looked exactly like me. She looked so much like me that I had a hard time keeping my eyes off of her. Total creep sauce. When our eyes finally met, it was a very Haley-Mills-Parent-Trap-Summer-Camp moment. I'd like to think I was the much cooler twin from California opposed to that stiff broad from Boston but then I would have been the first to have that very, very unfortunate light bulb-shaped haircut. All night long, we kept looking at each other and were both obviously weirded out but for whatever reason neither of us addressed it. I wish I had had the courage to just get up, cross the room and be like "Hey. We look a lot alike, don't we? Weird, huh?" I could have found out if we also sounded the same. Or were we somehow related? Did fragrant deodorants give her rashes, too? Was John Lennon also her favorite Beatle? And what about when your arm brushed up against something and your arm hairs were no longer laying in the same direction? Did that drive her crazy, too?

While out here in Vegas/Irvine on my trip, I've been seeing people who look exactly like friends I knew from high school, college, etc, all whom I haven't seen in years. Thankfully, they haven't end up being those people but actually their twins. This keeps happening, no doubt, out of my paranoia of having people see me in my present big and bloated state. It is vain and stupid I know, but that's the way I'm rolling right now. Literal rolls, in fact.

Happy New Year, Devore, wherever you are.

Very Sexy!

The day after Halloween, November 1st (yes, that really is the day after Halloween, Pennsylvania), I was grocery shopping at the Store-That-Must-Not-Be-Named and there was Christmas music playing over the loud speaker. It made my heart skip a beat...out of panic.

Do you know those people who are just good gift givers? Like they come up with the perfect item to give you--something you didn't even realize you wanted or needed but you totally end up wanting and needing it and it's perfect? I am not one of those people. I am very gift-giving-challenged. Sometimes I do ok but more often than not, I strike out big time. Let's review some of the more unfortunate gifts I have given my poor husband in our Christmas days of yore.

Compression Socks! Very sexy!














This Book! (he actually really wanted this but it was still a lame gift)

RAM!

Ties!
















A very fake memory foam pillow!











Salt in the wound! A book featuring something he desperately wants but I will never let him get!














A Nose Hair Trimmer!









But after seeing this, I realize I could have done much worse:

Hey, how ya doin?

Lately, I have feared the question "How are you?" It feels wrong to give the token answer "Good," or "Fine, thanks," when I'm not good or fine. I abhor fake-ness. But the question "How are you?" is unfortunately, more often than not, rhetorical. If one gives an honest answer such as "Inches away from a mental breakdown, thank you," one comes off as socially inept, which is almost as bad as being fake. Quite the conundrum. BUT by taking the time to read this post, YOU, fine reader, are essentially asking "How are you?" and really meaning it. If you didn't mean it, you wouldn't have started reading in the first place or would have stopped reading by now, which would be ok. I don't blame you.

So how am I?

Let's get our REAL on.

Well. Do you ever find yourself on the brink of on the brink of having a panic attack? Like you know you're not going to freak out but you just feel so overwhelmed with your life that you wouldn't be surprised if you did?

I've been there for awhile now. The octopus that has been on my header for a couple of weeks--I didn't put it there just because I liked it. I felt it was very appropriate for my life as of late.

My life isn't super easy; I'm sick of trying to pretend that it is.

I'm doing too much stuff that doesn't matter and am not doing enough stuff that does matter.

I need more balance, more structure, more meaning.

I instinctively want to make lists, charts, schedules, goals, plans of actions, but my mind is just swimming in all of it--all the little boxes, the check marks, the stars, the smiley faces, the circles, the lines, the arrows, the squares, the different colors of ink.

So right now, I'm just taking it minute by minute and am trying to find the good, enjoy the passing minutes and just be cool.

In the next coming days, my posts will be more sunny. Tomorrow is May's birthday which means getting to look at baby pictures of her, which I like to do on my kid's birthdays. What's better than a sweet, fat, rolly-polly baby? And then Thursday I have my ultrasound and will hopefully find out the gender of this soon-to-be sweet, fat, rolly-polly baby so I've got some good minutes ahead. I can say that.

And that's how I'm doing today, thanks. And you?

Today's Confessions: a PhotoBooth Journal

1. Most of the time, I have wet hair:

2. This doesn't help hide my trailer-trash roots that I will have for quite awhile, thanks to a number of huge and unforseen bills we have recently received:


3. During a typical week, I only wear makeup on Sundays. So unfortunately, I look like this alot:

4. Fortunately, I think looking like a ragamuffin is funny:

5. These are sugar-free popsicles I buy for Ruby. I give her and May all the so-so red and orange ones and save all the more tasty yellow ones for myself:


6. We went apple picking and this box of apples has been sitting here in my living room for days. I will be attempting to bake my first ever apple pie this evening:

7. The size of my belly has doubled in the past couple of days. Last night, I was laughing at something Go said, when all of a sudden, I felt a stab of electric pain right in my core. Go thought he was so funny that he made me cry. He was a bit let down to realize I had just pulled a muscle in my ever-stretching abs and it hurt like a beast.

8. I got that dress at Wal-Mart.