The Things You Do For Love March 2, 2015

The winter months are the most busy and most stressful time for Greg’s job. He works long hours and works more when he gets home from work and the kids have gone to bed. This last week I noticed that Greg needed to get out, sans kids. So I planned a ski date for us. He was excited to say the least. I, however, was not.

I chose skiing because Greg loves it, and ever since we have been together he has always wanted to take me. I really could care less about being in the great outdoors. But I do these things because he loves them. I have gone jet skiing, boating, to the beach, mountain biking, and now skiing, for him. And he does things for me. For instance, he will sometimes sit around on the couch for awhile or go running. As these are things I love to do. It’s really a give give in our marriage!

I went skiing twice last year but it wasn’t real skiing. I was only ‘learning’ to ski. I didn’t go up or down a real hill and I rode the magic carpet with kindergarteners. So to plan a ski date was very ambitious of me and to say I was scared shitless was an understatement. I should’ve backed out of the date when I almost got hit in the head with the trunk of Greg’s truck. I should’ve known better because every disaster starts with a knock to the noggin, right?!

As we entered the lodge I whipped through the ski rental area and walked out with my helmet on and the elastic strap to my glove stuck inside my helmet allowing my hand to only move a few inches away from my face before slapping back. At that moment I said something along the lines of,”I feel like I’m in Dumb and Dumber right now.”

Greg made the executive decision to skip the bunny hill and go up the big hill because the bunny hill is the same steepness of the bigger hill, just shorter. I started to get the nervous windy pops right about the time we stepped on to the ski lift and 6 other people filed in behind us, cramming in like sardines. Funnily, being on a ski lift like this is much like an elevator. Everyone whispers as if to respect the other patrons in the building, or in this instance the nervous chick shaking in the corner hugging the pole on the side of the lift car; me. I asked Greg how long it would take him to get down the hill. He replied with, “A minute or two, maybe.” Ok, so I think I can do this. That doesn’t seem that long.

When we exited the lift and put our skis on I quickly realized I had no muscle, or brain, memory for how to ski. I mean, like none.  I laugh about it now, but at the time I had a real fear of how I was going to get down!

At this point Greg starts to realize he made a huge mistake taking me up this hill, because it was clearly apparent I was not going to be able to get down easily. But we had to get down somehow and skiing seemed logical. We started to go and I was following Greg and could not get me bearings AT ALL. About 1/3 of the way down the first part of the hill Greg decided it was a good idea to just slide sideways down the hill, so he stopped. I, however, was still moving forward, right towards him. Thankfully he can handle himself of his skis and was able to stop me as I slammed into him. Phew! I’m no longer flying forward out of control. And then, it happened. I started to go down the hill again, only this time I was going backwards. And instead of letting go of Greg, I grabbed on more tightly and said something along the lines of “S$^% GREG S^%&!” To which he yells his famous last words of “Just Fall!!!!” So, I fall. And I slide 50 down the hill BACKWARDS and then hit a bump and flipped myself forward facing and continued to slide 15 more feet down the hill. So there it is. I ate snow. Big time.

A nice snowboarder stopped to bring my ski poles from where I originally fell and then continued to collect my skis that were peppered around us. He asked me five times if I was ok because, “Man, you slid backwards and then flipped pretty quickly!” Thanks, thank you for that recap. Got it. And no, I wasn’t really ok. At that point I couldn’t feel my left hip or thigh because when I flipped I landed on the boot or ski or something of my other leg.

Then the ski patrol showed up and carried my skis down to a flatter part of the hill while Greg walked down the hill with me. After wiping my tears and snot, I clipped my skis back on and we continued down the hill. Slowly. Very slowly. Remember when I originally asked Greg how long it would take him to get down the hill? He said a minute or two, tops. It took me AN HOUR to get down the hill. A WHOLE HOUR!

I kept going though because I couldn’t let my crappy skiing ruin Greg’s day. We made it back up and down the hill three more times and I only fell once, gracefully.

God bless Greg! The man could’ve cared less if I gave up after the first hill or continued on. As long as he was with me, nothing else mattered. And, I have to say that even though I have a 6-inch diameter bruise on my left hip that Greg says “looks like a galaxy”, I will go skiing again. Greg even said he will lend me his padded hockey pants. Love, true love!

Farting During Yoga Is Better Than This… January 31, 2015

First I need to extend my sincere apologies for withholding my crazy antics of the last few months. I’ve been preoccupied with having a baby and wrangling kids. Now that that is out of the way…enjoy.

About a year ago I shared my excruciatingly funny story of my first experience during an enjoyable hot yoga class. If you have forgotten the details of this event you can brush up on them if you’d like. My good friend Kate and I share a love of hot yoga. And when I was recently in Toledo we had the opportunity to share the love together.

Let me preface this by saying, I am used to vinyasa flow hot yoga while the studio we were going to was Bikram. There is a difference in the practice, but I don’t need to go into details but just emphasize that I was not prepared for the intensity of a Bikram instructor or the intensity of this instructor’s students. Warning: if you need to use the restroom now would be a perfect time.

Upon entering the studio, Kate and I were welcomed by a petite woman resembled an old, red lipsticked, orange haired, translucent skinned Tinkerbell. She even wore a blue velvet leotard coupled with a cute little skirt! She was an older woman and her computer skills were compatible with a Commodore 64. At one point I didn’t think we were going to make it on time to class because she took so long. Tinkerbell had one instruction for us, “I’m going to ask you two to not sit next to each other in class. It’s important to separate yourselves.” Um…whatever. This is part of our catching up with each other. So we ignored her and laid our mats out int he back row right next to each other.

Let me paint a picture for you of our surroundings. First, the room smelled like sweaty balls. The flooring was some type of carpet which lead me to believe the smell was permeating from the ground up and mixing in nicely with the cool 98 degree air. Yum! One by one half-naked students started filing in and settling into their resting pose. I have always worn long pants in hot yoga because the sweat often times hinders ones’ ability to hold certain poses. Apparently in this class, the less clothes the better, and bikinis are welcome.

Class is about to begin and who should walk in with a microphone headset on? You guessed it, TINKERBELL!!!!!!!!!! And she was still wearing her blue velvet leotard and tiny little skirt. Her skin was so pale and her lipstick was so bright red that all you could see when she talked was a pair of red painted moving lips and a floating orange coif twisted up with a banana clip. Priceless image really. And did I mention she was about 60 year olds? Just to paint the picture a little more for you. She was totally a hippy in the 70s.

So class begins. Going through the motions, my pal Kate was being given some extra instruction by Tink and I glanced over to say something to Kate and BAM! I was scolded for talking. I immediately start giggling and thankfully we were facing the back wall she Tinkerbell couldn’t see me.

Okay, now think back a few paragraphs when I said that the students in this class had hardly any clothes on…and let me also add that half of the students were of the baby boomer age group. Some poses go by and all of a sudden I find myself looking forward while in down dog only to be smacked in the face by a 70-year-old man’s bald balls. Yes, you read that correctly. The man in front of me was wearing a pair of shorts and NO UNDERWEAR. So now I had the smell of hot sweaty balls in my nose and a pair of of hot sweaty balls dangling in front of my face.

Now, I’m giggling and gagging uncontrollably. And I can’t share my disgusted excitement with Kate for fear I will get scolded by Tink again. Well, that only lasted a few moments to when Kate realized that she recognized the man from a previous class and then calculated my proximity to his behind and concluded that I too was experiencing the same testicle show she previously had. And then, I got yelled at AGAIN for talking/giggling/gagging, take your pick. “This is why I told you two to separate from each other. You are taking away from each other’s practice.” Or something along those lines. I could not help giggling more.

So now, I can not take the class seriously because I have floating red lips yelling at me in one direction and a pair of old balls taunting me in the other direction. I just couldn’t win. I wish I could say there is a totally epic end to the story, but there isn’t. I almost got kicked out of yoga by Tinkerbell and I now know what old sweaty balls look like. Not really bucket list worthy, but a notch in the bed post of experiences?

I Wish Our Elf Would Have Died…Almost December 13, 2013

It almost happened. Our Elf on a Shelf almost died this morning. Well, I guess she actually did, but no one saw it so it doesn’t count…Let me back up. If your Elf is touched by a human, they then die and lose their magical powers and have to go to some magical elf hospital or something where they can regain their magical elf power of tattling on bad little kids. This morning our oldest girls found our elf, Sprinkles, diving head first into a container of homemade chocolate chip cookies. As I was packing lunches, I hear my toddler yelling “mama, mom!” and as I looked over she was proudly holding Sprinkles in her hand.

Notice the other two children are not around her, however they were standing in the room to the immediate left of the Christmas tree you see in the background. I have to say, I had a heart palpitation. All I could think was if the older girls saw what their sister was doing they would have major meltdowns and I would never get them on the bus and off to school. So, I resorted to my ninja like skills that I don’t have and flew over to the table and snatched the stuffed elf from my toddler and shoved it back in the cookie container. Imagine that, I stole a stuffed toy from my toddler.

Next thing I know, my toddler is at it again, only this time she is foregoing the elf and grabbing for a cookie.

And I let her have it. But the point of my story is not the potential demise of a stuffed elf, it’s the false sense of magic and the lying that comes with it. That may sound harsh, but hear me out. Last year when the girls received their elf, my husband and I thought it was cute, fun and harmless. The Elf on a Shelf has become a trend that parents everywhere have made a into a hilarious game. But more importantly it is used as a way to get our children, mine included, to behave better so that they might get more presents on Christmas day. My husband and I are totally guilty of saying “Sprinkles is watching you…” or “Sprinkles is going to tell Santa on you…” I cringe at the thought that I have said those words.

After thinking about what had just happened, I almost wished that I could have let her hold it just a little longer so one of her sister’s would have seen her. Because this would have been an opportunity for me to explain the true spirit of Christmas to them. Don’t get me wrong, believing in Santa is magical and OK in my book. But we, as parents, feel that Christmas has gotten away from its true meaning. My kids know it is Jesus’ birthday, and they know we receive gifts because Jesus was given gifts on the day he was born. But what they don’t know is why Santa is the one to bring them. And to tell you the truth, I don’t either.

This year with our kids we started something a little different. Each of us will receive only three gifts under the tree. Which in hindsight is a lot considering the people who will have nothing. But the three gifts hold a greater meaning than the big man in red. Jesus was brought three gifts and so we will be brought three gifts. While I am not going to spoil their belief in Santa this year, because after all believing is part of being a kid, we are making a point to draw a bigger picture about what Christmas is all about. And we are refusing to use the stuffed elf as a way to determine what is under the tree on Christmas morning.

Lizzy Has A Small Victory September 6, 2013

This is a little more of a serious post. It is with mixed emotions that I sent my two oldest daughters to school today. One for second grade and a kindergartner. I say mixed emotions because for the last few weeks they have been driving each other nuts and basically screaming out for a school routine. And yesterday when my five-year-old figured out school was starting today she turned into a pinball inside my house and didn’t stop until 10pm last night. So for that I am happy they are in school again.

I titled the post “Lizzy Has A Small Victory” because I like to write about myself! Kidding! I used that title because when my oldest went to kindergarten we both were a blubbering mess of tears and snot at drop off.  Ever since then I have made a commitment to my children that I would better prepare them and myself for their future endeavors.

After moving to NJ, we had a fresh start with our anxieties and fears, meaning we kind of left a lot of them in Ohio. And since then we have been working diligently to puffen our daughter’s confidence and self-esteem up. I wanted my kids to start each school year without the same fears I had growing up. The fear of the unknown (FOTU). It’s the worst fear to have because it makes you afraid of anything. We noticed the nasty FOTU in our oldest daughter early on, but it’s with great pleasure to say she hopped on the bus without hardly saying good-bye this morning. Her bus mate from last year was waiting for her to grab her seat. Thankfully.

So I may be a little saddened by the extreme quiet in my house while I work this morning. But make no mistake, I totally farted while doing a cartwheel in excitement in the school parking lot over the victory of my kindergartener fearlessly riding the BIG bus to school by herself and confidently marching into school without looking back. No cliche “wahoo kids are in school jump” here. Victory cartwheel for my daughter’s growing into confident little girls (almost young ladies, barf!) AND I did not shed one tear and neither did the girls!  CHECKMATE!

I’ve Created A Lizzy August 23, 2013

I hate to say it, but my five-year-old is a mini Lizzy. Let me explain. This morning while riding bikes at a school she crashed her bike, in a big way. Now, I realize she has just learned to ride with no training wheels, but her crashes remind me of a time when I crashed my sister’s bike as a kid. I was in love with my sister’s bike. Oh it was so cool. Slate grey with a shimmer in it, and those really cool curvy ten-speed handle bars, I loved that bike! After begging her and begging her to let me ride it, she finally said I could but only to our next door neighbors driveway and back. Now, we did not live in the country so there was literally 10 feet of sidewalk to ride between our houses. So, me thinking I’m cool I take off down our driveway and fly right up our neighbors driveway. But, I didn’t want to stop to turn around, so I cut the wheel hard to the left so that I could just turn and go right back down. Well, that didn’t work out too well and I flew off the bike and landed chest first into the handle bars. Of course, I couldn’t breathe and my sister thought I was dying. So she picked me up (I had to be 7) and carried me into our house freaking out! Haha! My dad about had a heart attack trying to figure out what happened. I remember laying on the couch that night with ice on my chest! So this leads me to my five-year-old’s crash today.

We were leaving the school and the girls decided to ride their bikes to the car. Obviously my car was not the only one in the parking lot, but there weren’t many cars. So she starts off, going great, cruising along when all of a sudden she starts to get really close to the car parked next to mine. And of course the car parked next to mine was a brand new car with the 30 day tags still on it. As we are telling her to stop she freaks out and keeps going riding her bike head on into the back of this new car. As she hits the car her bike turns and she bounces off it again, but this time with her body and almost rips the 30 day tag off the car. So there’s two bounces here. One of the front of her bike hitting the car and another bounce of her body and the side of her bike hitting the car. Oy! My bank account flashed before my eyes. I totally would have taken a picture but in the words of Jann Arden, it would have been insensitive because my daughter was genuinely hurt and crying and there were major marks on the car. A banged up knee later she is ok, but a little shaken from all the bouncing. To avoid more humility I left a note on the car with my name and number.

The owner of the car called about 5 hours later to tell me he was able to rub all the marks off the car and it was fine. He thanked me for leaving a note and really only wanted to know if my daughter was fine, which was totally sweet! Thankfully no permanent damage done on either end. And my five-year-old now has her first Lizzy story. Guess I’m going to have to think of a new name for her.

Holy cow I forgot to add the best part! My daughter had such a rough morning I told her we could watch a movie. So she picks out what movie she wants and puts it on te coffee table. Next thing I know, the DVD is siting at the bottom of the toilet surrounded by poop. And ironically the movie was Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs. The end!

 

Lizzy Takes Hot Yoga July 24, 2013

After a year living in our new town, Lizzy went out on a limb and purchased a Groupon for hot yoga classes at a local studio. For the record this is the first real thing Lizzy has done alone since moving. Besides grocery shopping and showering, of course. Lizzy has done yoga for quite a few years, rarely in a studio though and has never done hot yoga.

I must warn you, while most of this is hilarious, for some people who don’t appreciate Lizzy’s rawness about bodily functions, you will not find this funny. But don’t worry, I’ll tell you when to stop reading.

So into class she goes. Walking into the room was like I stepped into the Sahara Desert, except there were no cactus and the closest thing to a mirage was the fake fireplace in the corner of the room.

Sitting on her mat waiting for class to start, sweat was dripping down her back and in between her boobs. Hot hot hot. Ok, so class starts and as I’m looking around the room I noticed that people had special yoga towels that fit the whole length of their mat. What did Lizzy have? A hand towel. Hot yoga 1, Lizzy 0.

After a few poses I now realize how very important full length towels are because Lizzy looked like she was ice skating on her yoga mat from the buckets of sweat spilling from her body onto her mat. Hot yoga 2, Lizzy 0.

Despite being slippery, the class was amazing. Totally in love with hot yoga now. But, at the end of the class the instructor told us all to pick our inversion pose of choice and hold it for 10-15 breaths. This is where class starts to go beyond Lizzy’s capabilities and her modesty.

As some of the yogis start to kick their legs up into a forearm balance and full on hand stands, Lizzy tries a go at a shoulderstand pose and struggles immensely. The instructor sees this and comes to help. Ok, here is the part where you should stop reading if you get grossed out or are embarrassed easily.  For the rest of you, enjoy.

So, I’m lying on my shoulders with my legs behind my head and then I lifted them into the air but was struggling. So the instructor comes over and pulls my legs up further to where they should be, thus stretching out my abdomen. I could barely hold it so she says to me, “I’m going to help you lower down now.” Big mistake. HUGE mistake. As my back meets the ground again and my legs start to lower an awful, awful noise starts to squeak out of my body. RIGHT ON THE INSTRUCTOR. Hot Yoga 3, Lizzy 0.

As I lay there mortified acting as if I was stretching, trying to figure out how I was going to recover from this. Could I recover from this? So then I sat up only to have another freaking machine gun go off! UGH! Then I hear this dude in front of me say to his friend, “Man, I keep hearing someone farting.” No, no, sir. I wish it were farting. In fact farting would be an amazing thing to be coming out of me right now, but no my body had to let air out of the other hole, and I don’t mean my urethra.

Hot Yoga 75, Lizzy 0.

Material Girl Madge

Madonna has always walked on the edge of style and shock. From her cone bras and lace gloves to her leather bustier and fish net stockings, she has always dressed outside of the box. While this style rebellion worked for her young persona, at the ripe age of 54 it seems to be dating her more than her actual age.

She recently was photographed with her youngest son David and it seems she pulled her outfit from her 1986 wardrobe with what be her future granny wardrobe. Sticking with the black theme, the fit mama to three wore a sheer laced tank top with a visible black bra under it that bared her midriff. But instead of flaunting it completely she wore a black sweater to partially cover herself.

Madonna is a fit mama who has sort of broken the mold for what women over 50 should look like and normally how they dress. But is she too old now? I can’t help but think of her children. They are of the age now where their parents could easily embarrass them, not that a child’s embarrassment should depict a parent’s style. But isn’t there a point in even Madonna’s life where she needs to start dressing more age appropriate? There is nothing worse than seeing the has-been mom looking like she is trying to relive her youth.

Ok, give me some flack. It’s ok. I get it; I’m ragging on Madonna. But she isn’t a virgin anymore, or was she ever? I digress. I’m not saying she needs to dress like an old lady. But she could maybe move up a decade and dress like she is thirty-something instead of twenty-something?