La La How The Life Goes On

Archive for June 2010

This ‘n That

Posted on: June 25, 2010

A few things, none of which have deserved their own post:

A. BostonMed. Oh, what a show. It’s a documentary on ABC, revolving around Brigham & Women’s, Children’s Hospital and Mass General. So good. Not a fake reality show at all. This week was about two lung transplant recipients and a Framingham police officer who was shot in the face. Really compelling, really something to see.

B. South Beach Diet. I’ve been on it a week and have lost 4 pounds. Let’s be honest: I won’t be getting bikini ready while I’m still on prednisone, but let me tell you that having your Fat Pants not feel tight is a very liberating feeling. Nothing worse than buying fattie clothes and then having THEM not fit. That is the living, breathing definition of despair. I was fully in that George Costanza territory, where he declares that wearing sweatpants out of your house in public is a sign that you’ve given up on life. I was This Close to buying a wardrobe full of sweatpants, is all I’m sayin’.

C. Modesty. I was in the bike shop today picking up the Dada’s bike wheel when a cyclist came in wearing some weird, indecent type of bike shorts. Now, you may wonder why I’m being redundant by using “indecent” and “bike shorts” in the same sentence. Well, because these shorts where THAT indecent. They not only had full penis outline going on, but they had a codpiece-type addition that seemed designed to feature said penis while holding They Boys in check. They were, in short, absolutely disgusting. I rarely if ever think, “Wow, that’s too much penis” but today was the day, friends. It was all wrong in time, place and manner. The only way I can describe it is to say that it is a cross between this (Hugh Laurie’s codpiece in Blackadder) and this (the former Vice President showing his loose morals):

D. Cool Things. Today there was a huge storm in our area. The girls and I were on the deck waiting for the rain to come, and come it did in sudden, giant, fat blobs. We stayed out in the rain until the lightning came and I shuffled everyone inside. From the window we watched the storm blow through–and we watched this appear between our trees:

We have lots of cool things in our garden, like bunny rabbits and the occasional deer and whatnot, but a rainbow? It’s hard to not feel special and cool when a rainbow materializes right in front of you, right in your own back yard.

And with that, I bid you a Top O’ The Mornin’!


…It’s the FAT that makes you look fat! –Ed Bundy, Married With Children

I have been complaining and moaning in these pages about my prednisone-induced lard-ass, but without much detail. So in the interests of nothing in particular, please allow me to regale you with the Stuff You Didn’t Want To Know About My Fat:

1. I have just hit the “Red Flag” weight before the “Never Gonna Be That Weight Again” weight I promised myself I’d never countenance. This is a motivator like you cannot imagine.

2. Why so motivated? I now have ROLLS. Yep. Rolls. Haven’t had rolls since I was 13, (oh, and 19 back when I gained the Freshman 30, quickly resolved when my PARENTS did a doubletake to recognize me coming off the plane. Nothing scarier than your parents searching your face and going, “Daughter? Is that you?”). Never planned on having rolls again, but here we are.

3. My rolls have rolls. To the extent that when I wake up in the morning or if I sweat a little during they day, I get panicked that I may start getting those rashes and chafing from skin being stuck to skin for hours.

4. Speaking of chafing, I am at real risk of developing Chub Rub, that scourge of all heavy people everywhere. If you knew me back in grade school when I was a chubba, you will recall my painfully chafed inner thighs peeking out of my terrycloth shorts jumper. You will remember my heavy neighbor gladly interrupting her viewing of Hart to Hart to tell me to use vaseline to stop the chafing. You will remember my mortification that not everyone apparently got the chub rub–nope, just us fatties.

5. Prednisone fat is a different texture than regular fat. Regular fat is rolypoly. Predfat is solid-roly. And only in specific locations. So when I say I have fat rolls I don’t mean this kind:

I mean, unfortunately, more like this kind:

Note how that zipper is begging for mercy. Note how the entire enterprise is teetering on the brink of catastrophic malfunction due solely to a giant swathe of adipose tissue at precisely the location of the zipper/button combo fastener. Note that if that terrible stylist had given me a brown rinse and perm back in December 2009 rather than the Sigourney Weaver in Alien3 debacle, I would be a dead ringer right now for Susan Boyle and her display of haberdashery hopelessness.

Therefore, note me avoiding the bad carbs for the next several weeks.

If you’ve never been a stay at home mom you may not really understand what the day-to-day is like. You might think of it as joyous communion with one’s offspring, the opportunity to watch scads of daytime television, prodigious quantities of homemade cappuccinos with other mom friends as we discuss our blessed and charmed lives, and essentially a freedom that you don’t have because you have to go to work.

You’d be wrong.

Let’s translate my day at home to yours at the office. My coworkers and I say good morning with bad breath–and sometimes one of them has pooped her pants. Imagine you have a meeting to attend; you and your colleagues plan to leave the office together. Only, one of those coworkers REFUSES to put on her coat and shoes, so you’re all waiting around until she decides she’s going to do it–IF she’s going to do it. But for the time being, she’s just pretty much throwing down that the shoes are not effing going on and you all can pound sand at your stupid meeting. So you’re late for your meeting. When you finally do arrive, Miss Colleague #1 cannot sit still, cannot listen, cannot do anything remotely self-contained. You hear about half of what you need to hear, but you’re grateful you got that much out of the experience insofar as the damn shoes were finally put on and you actually got here to begin with.

Finally back to the office. You tend to work through lunch at your desk, but a couple of times a week your colleague will not go and be quiet in her own office during the lunch hour; she must scream and cry and raise the roof in a manner that makes it impossible for you to complete a single task on your To-Do list. Without exaggeration: you accomplish NOTHING during the supposed Golden Hour of Productivity at least two days a week. What makes these outbursts most difficult is that you cannot predict their schedule. Will Monday be the day your breakfast dishes are still in the sink at dinner time? Or will that be Tuesday? Will your kitchen floor remain unmopped for another month because of Thursday drama? You just never know. So phone calls go unreturned, emails go unanswered, and houses continue to look ransacked. But don’t worry–I’m sure you look like you’re doing a great job regardless.

Finally the end of the day is upon you and let’s say you managed to do some simple straightening up of your office or some basic document work or you managed somehow to finish that giant project that’s been hanging over your head. Your colleague will now walk into your office and mess up that desk while pooping her pants and then delete all your files from the day, which means you will start tomorrow AM at the same baseline as you did today. Any measurable progress on anything? It’s as if it never happened. Any attempt to clean your surroundings? Futile–and tinged with the faint smell of poopies.

The babysitter has been hired! And I’m just gonna say it: she’s really pretty. I know it’s kind of a rule that the wife is supposed to hire an ugly babysitter, but this woman was great from minute one. She immediately started chatting with Bambina, asking her about school. She also handled Baby Sister beautifully, engaging her but not getting all up in her face. Bambina especially loved her, and I’m going to tell you why: “Mama, I think she looks a lot like me, don’t you?” Yes, my love, I do. And what will I not tell you until you are older, my sweet daughter? I did that on purpose. I absolutely (and you can call me a discriminator if you want to) made a point of interviewing women who were not white. Everywhere my kids look they are surrounded by white people; I decided that when they looked at their babysitter, they’d see someone who wasn’t. Think of that what you will, but as you can tell from my daughter’s comment: it matters. It didn’t hurt that my newly ear-pierced daughter (with the emerald birthstone earrings) noticed that Babysitter was wearing a similar pair, and we found out she shares the same birth month as Bambina–and same birthday as the Dada. Bambina felt like that was kismet (even though Babysitter will mostly be watching Baby Sister while Bambina is at day camp).

Anyway, she’s a college student, smart, competent, and I felt very comfortable with her. I also knew she was going to be The One when I had to mention the dreaded truth that Bambina and Baby Sister love to get naked and “booty shake” dance after dinner and before bed. I said, “So, just to let you know, there is a bit of nakedness that goes on here, so hopefully that’s not too alarming…” She was not flustered in the least, and that was that: you’re hired. I feel good about it so far, and felt even better when Bambina asked when Babysitter would be watching her as well as Baby Sister. That’s a good sign from a kid who, because of the way she would cling to my leg 24 hours a day, at one time was lovingly called “Velcro Girl.”

During basketball commercials we are flipping over to The Tony Awards. Why? For the sheer entertainment! Not the theater kind, because I actually kind of don’t like Tha Theeatah as a rule, but the entertainment that comes from observing something as a total snarky outsider.

First things I noticed: I recognize no one. No wait! There’s Denzel! And Christopher Walken! That’s two. Oh! I also see Scarlett Johanssen’s boobs. So that makes four.

What makes viewing The Tonys so surreal is that it reminds me of watching TV in China, where you can see that the people on the TV are obviously very famous to the people around them, that this event is obviously Very Important, that this whole thing looks like something about which I should very much care, based on the production values alone. And yet…and yet…I recognize no one. The entire production could be a hoax and I’d be none the wiser. The attendees could all be saying in their special language, “I can’t wait to see the hidden camera footage of the stooge girl watching us and thinking this is a real show!” and I’d remain clueless.

It’s like a riddle: if no one knows you’re famous, are you still famous? Oh! Speaking of “not famous” what person who has probably just been fired brought Paula Abdul on to present the choreography award?! That lady brought 12 kinds of batshit crazy to American Idol’s season finale, and they risked the whole (fake? hoax?) show by giving her an open mic? That almost PROVES The Tonys are a made-up event! Because if Paula can keep a lid on her craziness for the 4.3 minutes it takes to deliver an award, then you KNOW the fix is in. If this show were real, she’d be clearly off her meds and be all rubbing up against Tony Shalhoub on camera and making the whole audience wildly uncomfortable.

In any event, we’re back to the Celtics for the end of the game (and also because the In Memoriam segment started and it seems beyond idiotic to not only watch living people you don’t know but dead ones as well). I have two comments about this game, which is another enterprise about which I know and care nothing: First, there is a Laker player named Fisher who has the most regrettable look I’ve ever seen. The bald head (good) with what the Dada called, “The Beard to Nowhere” (bad). Why would any man select this style? It just looks wrong. Asymmetrical. Wrong. I can’t put my finger on it exactly but I hate it. Second, I am LOVING the African-American lady behind the bench who is standing up while the refs are discussing a call, waving her hand and making it clear that She is Coming Down There if the right call is not made. So awesome! DO NOT MESS with bleachers lady! I’m just hoping The Tonys hire her next year for their show, if it really IS a show, that is.

A friend and I were talking the other day about affairs and men and whatnot. Not necessarily about the Tiger Woods/Jesse James stuff, because those are not the norm. Or perhaps they are the norm, only writ large and super skanky. In any case, we were trying to figure out how devious you have to be to cheat, and why more husbands than wives seem to cheat. Our answer, as all the mothers out there can attest, is simple:


Hello! When would all this sordid seksi-time be happening? Between 9:30 and 10:00am when the baby is watching Elmo? And when would the leg-shaving and even basic bathing be happening that would be a prerequisite for this passionate secret rendezvous? We can barely get our hair together and get the kids out the door as it is. If I had some hot dude coming over at 11am I’m hard-pressed to see how anyone is eating dinner that night what with that empty fridge courtesy of me skipping the groceries that day. And how does that get explained? Um…I decided to watch The View instead?

Bottom line: Stay at Home Moms have zero opportunity to cheat, unless you are that kind of SAHM who has time for tennis lessons and lunches with friends and all those other activities where you, you know, meet actual people who don’t have a backpack full of diapers on them and don’t excuse themselves to go to “the potty.” No, if you’re my kind of SAHM, your dance card is pretty full already on a daily basis.

So I mentioned this to the Dada with my incredulous, “Like, what would the woman do? Invite a dude over while the kid is napping?! Who would do that?!”

He looked at me and said laughing, “And there’s your answer why more men cheat, because a guy TOTALLY would invite someone over while the kid naps! Guys MAKE the time!”

I laughed hysterically. Then added, “Don’t think I won’t cut you” just to ensure there were no misunderstandings. 😉


Posted on: June 11, 2010

The Dada and I were watching TV the other night when the fifteenth commercial for TGIFridays came on, urging me to try its Sizzling Chicken Whatever & Pasta and it’s Whiskey Grilled Cheesy Cheese Thing. The exhortations were accompanied by live action shots of the cheese pouring out of the chicken breast or the shrimp being drowned in sizzling jus of unknown origin, One can only assume that the video was intended to tempt my tastebuds into driving immediately to my local TGIFridays and gettinmesummathat.

Instead, I blurted, “Oh my god that is so disgusting!” Friends, you must understand something:

I am Scottish. I grew up eating animal organs.

One of my favorite dirty nasty foods that I no longer eat but secretly still want to is that Hormel Spreadable Chicken Paste in a can. It’s near the tuna and the deviled ham, and it is soooo good I seriously have to resort to 12-step techniques to not grab a tin of it as I pass by. I am simultaneously certain that it contains ground-up chicken penises and beaks, and yet I cannot stop thinking about how good it is on a hot slice of toast.

I think Spam is a valid food choice. I especially love it fried and on buttered white bread. Again, I don’t eat it because one can’t go around eating Spam, now, can one? But I still secretly yearn for it. Hard.

I eat Hot Pockets when pressed for time.

I think Salisbury Steak has earned the right to be called steak. One billion Hungry Man dinners can’t be wrong, right?

I think Dinty Moore is a lot like dog food, but that doesn’t make it any less tasty. Those are some lucky dogs, is all I can say.

I think ketchup and french toast go together beautifully.

So please believe me when I say that TGIFridays has plumbed the depths of food infamy if they can make ME not want melty cheesy sizzly food with suspect meat. Even if I can get it with an appetizer and dessert for $12.99.

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