Addendum to Ad-Nauseum

A few weeks ago I was chatting with a friend about the idea of signing on for a month for a pre-packaged weight loss system (like the commercials that are running constantly right now). You know, order your food online, they deliver it, you eat it, you're skinny. Voila.

So she tells me that she and her hubby did it for one month, to take a few pounds off without having to think about it. Now, they're foodies, so I was surprised. She tells me how the food arrived and it was narsty narsty narsty. Apparently they tried a bit of it, were disgusted, and decided to call it a wash and go back to eating real food. Well, they didn't pack the food away, nor did they toss it. They left for a day trip. The dog got into the food.

They came back home to a shitfest.

ALL over the house. Their poor dog was horrified and embarassed. And that night, after hours of bleach and rubber gloves and fits of gags and laughter, the dog had a final, painful outburst. On their bed.

A package.

Of oatmeal.

(It's not the right thing to do, and it's not the tasty way to do it!)

ad-nauseum

Like we didn't know that New Year's was for making people less fat, we can turn on our televisions and be bombarded with commercials for new diet plans. Have you noticed? We watched some tv on the Bravo network on New Year's Day and it was amazing. Every single commercial was either for a pre-packaged food diet plan or an online weightloss program. Of course it's appropo, it's resolution time. How many years I made resolutions to drop elbees, I don't know. But it was too many. Why didn't I resolve to learn, once and for all, to play the guitar? I've stopped and started that too many damn times to count. What about resolving to learn a new language? A cool-cooking technique?

How about resolving not to resolve?

I did this a few years ago. It's been so friggin liberating, I can't begin to tell you. No more angst about my legs rubbing together. No more drama over my decision to put real milk or skim in my coffee (and just for the record....skim milk in your coffee? Jesus, what's the point? Just add some more water). No more bashing myself by February 1st because I hadn't lost 10 pounds in January like I had resolved to. Nope, none of that...just another day to shuffle around with my kiddos and be in the moment, with crushed crayons on the floor, leftovers in the fridge, and a mug of coffee in my hand. And maybe some cream for my chafed legs. ;-)

WhoopAss

There's nothing like ringing in the New Year with a self-imposed ass-whooping. As some of you know, I've had some back pain lately, which resulted in an MRI, which resulted in a visit to a pain clinic for a nerve-block shot of cortisone. It kicked in a few days ago, and I've had to resist the urge to go for a jog, knowing the damage is still there, but the pain (hurrah!) isn't.

So, in I go for a weekly chiropractic visit to stay proactive and to move forward with the healing process. It's a great adjustment. I feel great. I step outside, in my new shoes (you read about them in my ABFAB blog) and my heel gets stuck as I proceed down the steps. Concrete steps, naturally. There are five in all, for those of you who like numbers. I cleared four of them. Right to the ground. Thumpity thump thump thump. Broke my fall with my left knee, right shoulder and two palms (you read that right, I'm like GUMBY, especially after a crack at the chiro's!). Didn't even get up. A man saw me and was sweet and understood my mixture of pain and embarassment...he helped me up and gave me a gentle pat on the arm.

So, thank goodness for pain shots. Although I'm feeling my fall, it's not like it could be. The worst part, other than the scrape of my new shoes? I think I sprained my armpit.

Happy New Year! Pay attention on the stairs, jackass!

Frumptastic!

I think it happens to all women at some point, particularly if they've gotten into some kind of lifestyle rut:

-a long term relationship (you know, the kind where you stop going out and start ordering pizzas and going to Blockbuster and you kid yourself because you're just SO comfortable being with him on your couch in sweats),

-working long hours and being so exhausted that the idea of putting on makeup is unattractive because you know that about 12 hours later, you'll just need to take it off again,

-you're a newlywed and you've gotten your bling and your thing and quite frankly, it's time to put the darn fishing pole away

-you're a mom and you've been home for awhile. THIS would be me.

We spend many holidays with my husband's family at their farm in New Hampshire. It's a place like no other....beautiful views of Mt. Chocura, a 13 acre apple orchard, farm animals to delight kids of all ages, amazing home-cooked food and the crispest air you've ever breathed. It's a place where you can leave your hair down, literally and figuratively. I don't pack a hairdryer, I don't pack my makeup....just my floss, toothbrush and maybe some moisturizer to slap on as I'm getting myself ready for the day.

When I was working, it was wonderful to get comfy in my sweats, pull up a ponytail, and take a break from the beautification drudgery of my Monday through Friday gig. Now, though, I've been home for almost 8 months. No more daily makeup. No hair styling. No matching my outfit. In the first few post-partum months, it was a coup to change out of flannel pajama bottoms and into maternity sweat pants before 1pm. I always took my showers (10 minutes minimum with water hot enough to potentially burn skin...that's how I like 'em!), brushed my teeth and wore my moisturizer (I'm now listening to my mother's sage skin advice, I've never seen a blemish on that woman's face), but other than that, there was no fancifying my look.

So, up in New Hampshire this past holiday, I was surrounded by family. One of the women there is a mom also and her son is about 3. Her hair was done.....her makeup looked great. She had a cute outfit and fun furry boots. She looked fantastic.

I took a look at myself in the mirror before we sat down to eat. Maternity sweatpants, with stains. Maternity t-shirt, with stains (appropriately placed too in the one area-ok, two areas, you really want stains, hair in a 1994 hair comby-clip, no makeup, Sasquatch brows. And the Pièce de résistance.....the non-skid socks from the hospital that I got when I had my second baby.

I knew I was in trouble. I had slipped. I realized that I had become. Frumpy. Frumpilicious. Olli Olli Oxen Frump. On a gadda da Frumpa. Frumpelievable.

I'm trying my best to turn this sinking ship around. I had a quick and dirty plucking session. I have filed my nails. I've banished my maternity wear to my workout wear-drawer, and thanks to a gift from my Dad...I've gone shopping. I didn't go crazy because I'm hoping to be down another size in the next few months, but I did get some fun stuff. Wanna see?

My first choice could still be deemed Frumpulous, but they're NOT. I swear. Yes, they're clogs, but they're save your black clogs. Look good with black or brown clogs. And some beautiful cashmere-blend sweaters from my favorite store. Oh, and two things for the kids.

So, it was all about a Mommy Makeover when I went shopping this weekend. Feel-good Mommy. Look-good Mommy. I'm going to take off my long sleeve gray t-shirt and kittycat pajama bottoms before 12 noon, Mommy.

So, thank you to CHRIS...my pretty Mommy inspiration. I'm turning down the ponytail holder and going for the cool headband. I'm throwing on some concealer just for the hell of it. I'm choosing my fun new shoes over my tattered slippers. And, although I'd love to dive in with facials and maybe a pedicure every few months, I'll hang here for a bit in the stratosphere between Frumpy and Fabulous.

Patrol

Warning: this may gross you out.

I hear that all parents have an experience like the one I had today. The moment when we're installing a carseat in our minivan, wiping rice cereal off of a ceiling, or attempting to negotiate with a toddler and it hits us: we're parents, and our carefree life is gone. Forever.

Necessary disclaimer: I love my life and husband and children and wouldn't change any bit of it.

Today was promising in that I was going to actually cross things off of my 'to-do' list. Tidy bathroom, check. Organize coupons, check. Wrap most of Christmas gifts, check. After one baby went down for a nap, my toddler roused herself out of a solid two and a half hour snooze and I went in to assess the situation and ready her for lunch.

The smell hit me before I could open the door.

Aaah, yes. The nap-crap. Nothing like pooping in your sleep, I guess. Everything just...relaxes. So, in I go. I notice a suspect bulge in her sleeper (a brand spanking new one, of course!) and the reality of what had occured hit me like a brick.

'Good afternoon, Peanut. Did you....um....take your diaper off?'

Nods affirmatively.

'Oh....okay. Let's see how we....okay.'

'Poop!'

'Yes, honey. Poop. You sure did. Wow, it's actually in the foot of your sleeper. Wow. Wow!'

'Wow!'

I ponder: do I just drop her in the tub or attempt to remove offending material on changing table first? I decide to take her to the changing table to assess the damage.

There is a lot of damage. Hard to look at damage. Can't breathe through my nose damage. How the hell am I supposed to make a dent in this, damage. I think I just saw a raisin, damage.

After the initial cleanup efforts, I take said toddler into the tub. It ain't pretty in here, either. I suddenly foresee some Comet scrub and elbow grease in my very near future. Aforementioned toddler is pissed about having to stand in the shower, and especially dislikes my 'Silkwood-esque' scrubbing of her torso. Amidst my showering of praise, 'You are doing SUCH a good job while Mommy cleans you, good girl being so patient' I realize that I'll need to eventually pick up and clean the sleeper that I tossed immediatley into the toilet (yes! that WAS my best option).

And so that is when I had my moment; I'm really not in Kansas anymore and there MAY be shit on my elbow.

In truth, the whole operation probably only lasted 20 minutes. The memories, however, will last a lifetime. And later, when loading the dryer with the twice-washed garments, I saw it.

A raisin.

Back

I have this thing where I don't want to sound like a broken record, or a hypochondriac...or both. So I try and not talk about it when I'm in pain, physically. But I haven't been able to hold back lately, it's just too hard and it just hurts too damn much. I've been inflicted what millions of people suffer through, at varying intensitites, every single day. I have a bad friggin' back.

It's the little things, really. Sitting on the can. Laughing. Picking up one the kiddos. Sneezing makes me almost cry. Rolling over in bed? Knives. Sitting. Sitting! I can't even sit. A three hour drive to New Hampshire had me sweating bullets until I rememberd that I had some Percocet left over from the c-section...hollah! Back pain? What back pain? Who's waving at me from the woods and why does he have on a green Dr. Seuss hat and how come I feel like kind of throwing up?

So, after 5 weeks of chiropractic adjustments and an MRI scheduled for next week, I'm actually feeling better. But the worst part of all of it was the fear. Am I going to feel like this forever? Is this my life from now on? Will my only form of exercise be walking? Will I be able to use my beautiful new elliptical machine gathering dust in my living room? Will I be one of 'those people'? You know, the one who is known for her back pain. Will it be what I talk about because the pain is such a part of my life that it feels weird not to? Will I purposely avoid talking about it because I don't want to bore people but secretly wish people knew really REALLY how much it fucked up my life?

So, I'm trying to chill out a little bit. I'm trying to relax and remember to take inventory of how healthy I really am. To appreciate how good and strong and able I am. To remember that I've had two children in two years and that my body is amazing. To be aware of it more often instead of lashing out all the time about my no good back and my extra baby weight and my hormonal acne and all the other crap that I complain about (at least to myself). Maybe that's why my body sends me these messages. Knock it off, appreciate what you have. You have a lot more than others do. Go take a walk.

And be grateful.

Hair

I know. Hair? What the hell. It just so happens to be a thing in my life right now. Hair. Gobs and gobs of it. In my shower drain. On every piece of flooring in my home. On all of my clothing. In my toddler's fingertips as she holds it up to me and says...'ditty'. In my infants mouth. In every broom pan I sweep into, there it is. I'm really not sure if it's hormonal or the normal changing of the follicle or whatever, but it's really starting to get annoying. I realized just yesterday, that hair has always been a real pain in the neck.

It's true. I have 'good hair' in the sense that it's thick and there is lots and lots of it (all thanks to genetics), and I've had some great hair cuts in my lifetime. But I don't know if I've had a really fair relationship with hair; I always seems a bit pissed about it. A bad cut, a spot of dry scalp, the way it falls out of my ponytail when I'm starting to exercise, so much that I really must stop and re-pony. The bang or no-bang discussion, or when banging, a snip too short which makes me look like I'm 8, or the quasi-bang, when you SPECIFICALLY ask for no-bangs (i.e., don't frigging touch them please) and they end up getting trimmed to JUST the length where they aren't really bangs, but they won't fit in the ponytail. This of course results in ridiculous overuse of the hair clip, whether it's the cute kind with the little butterfly or the Goody brown ones that held your head together on prom night.

I have a hairdresser whom I 'love' in that she's done my hair for years. She KNOWS my hair, you know? She knows to tread lightly on the bangs and that I need some help in the body department (i.e., I need layers and lots of thinning out). BUT, each and every time I get a snip, I go home aggravated. And I stay aggravated for about 3 days until I get over myself, over my hair, and back on to things that really matter (but I dare you to find a woman who says that the bang/no bang decision is one to be taken lightly). My husband is perpetually perplexed.

"Why don't you go to someone else? You always seem to not like your hair."

"Well, I could....but Margaret totally knows my hair. And she gives me a great deal." (this I toss out to end the conversation because he's a penurious fellow).

"I know but it just seems that you never like your hair when you come home. I mean I think it looks great, but maybe it's time to find a new stylist." Note: he did NOT, would not, would not EVER use the term stylist. I'm adding this as my own embellishment because I fear the word 'haircutter' would kill the overall gestalt of the conversation.

And here is where it gets funny.

"I know, but I just feel kind of bad, you know, going to someone else."

YES! It's the truth. I don't want to cheat on Margaret. I don't want her to see me in 6 months and realize that I've been with someone else. She'll know, too. They always know!

"You have some new layers in here. I thought we were just growing it out..."

"Um...yeah. I, um...got a trim. Because I was in New Hampshire. And it was really shaggy and it was in my face and everything." And the haircutters came out of the deep dark woods, threw a black sheet over my head and clipped me against my will. I'm not sure why I needed to toss New Hampshire in the mix, but maybe she won't be as hurt then. When I really got it cut in the next town over.

"Huh."
And then you know what comes next.
"Wow, they really did a number on your hair."
Dammit! It's bad enough that you feel like crap for cheating, now they have to rub it in your face that your hair is now a hot mess and that really, they'll need to do some serious 'reshaping' to save it.

And so it goes. After you apologize and baaaah like a sheep for 20 minutes, it's all back to normal. No, sorry...after you apologize, baaah like a sheep and spend $42 on a guilt purchase of a new shampoo and conditioner, it's all back to normal.

After a few days, when your hair starts to feel like it's yours again, you fall back into the routine. You figure out how to work with it, what to put in it, and most importantly, where the ponytail sits. Just right.