Monthly Archives: April 2010

Drinking problem

My husband and I have issues.

Over the past few months, we have been working super hard to drop our bear blubber. Because 1) we are simply too fat and 2) we are not actually bears who need to stockpile on a few layers of fat to make it through hibernation season. Hell, the fact is, all this extra cushion does NOT keep me any warmer in winter, no matter how much I try to use that as justification for the weight of a small child being attached to my ass. It’s kinda why it’s important to put polar bears on the endangered species list. How they do that, stay warm AND not develop diabetes is AMAZING — we need to study that. But that’s a different topic.

So to the gym we go. Or, as we call it, the exercise place. Because Jim is Jim, as opposed to gym, and my Jim-gym jokes get very tiring for him, and he began calling it “the exercise place” and he was relentless and I finally gave in. We lift three times a week, we do cardio at least four times a week. Sometimes we play racquetball and dammit is that funny. For real. Drop by the gym with your video camera and Bob Saget will be handing you a $10,000 check before you know it, it’s that entertaining. I once drilled the man right in the ear hole, which was almost as funny as the time I nailed myself in the face.

The result of this has been good. We generally watch what we eat, and we’re not over exercising, so the weight is coming off slowly but surely. Since Christmas, we have both dropped something in the area of 20 pounds. Yeeeee-hoooo! That is nice to see when you strip down completely naked because surely your clothes weight double-digits and  get on the scale.

But we all have our guilty pleasures. We all need our guilty pleasures. And for me and Mr. Wonderful, ours comes in liquid form:

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Time to make the donuts.

I use this image because Homer Simpson truly expresses how the fatty within emerges when Jim and I get our hands on a big, fat, delicious cup o’ Dunkin. Large. 1 cream. 2 Splenda. Oh. My. God.

Tonight, I went to the gym for cardio. We usually go together and drop the kids off at the daycare, but we couldn’t do that tonight because George only has one pair of shoes, and they were in the sink. Don’t ask. So I went first, ran for half an hour, then Jim went and did the death machine stair climber. Then, before returning home in time for the Blackhawks game, he stopped at Dunkin. He walked in the door with a cup in each hand and a big old smile on his face, and I kid you not I fell in love with him all over again! Seriously. Forget the selfless way he loves even the crappiest parts of me, or how he has to be reminded that he was not there when Hank was born because he has simply forgotten that he’s not the child’s biological father, or that he is patient even when I fill up his TiVo memory with episodes of “The Ghost Whisperer,” or that he managed to deliver the sweetest and most awkward marriage proposal ever in my parent’s driveway. It’s the Dunkin Donuts coffee in his hands. This is why he is awesome. 

It is truly the strangest thing ever. Tonight I referred to it as our “36-year-old beer,” because apparently we have reached an age where we do NOT grab a beer first thing when getting set to watch the big game. Of course — there IS beer in the fridge, and I’m sure we’ll both down one soon. It’s not like we’ve turned our backs on frothy-brewed deliciousness. But for whatever reason, there is a new liquid we cannot live without. And its name is Dunkin Donuts coffee.

My cup is currently empty. My coffee is in my belly. I might have to go grab my shoes and see if I can make HIM fall in love with ME all over again.

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Thumbs up

We all know it. We’ve all done it. It’s the international sign of “hey, it’s all cool.” It brings us closer to the Fonz. It’s “thumbs up.”

Back at St. James, when we were occasionally good-natured children (which wasn’t necessarily common for the Class of ’88 but it did sometimes happen), we would be rewarded with a game. “Thumbs Up” or “Thumbs Up 7 Up” or “Heads Up 7 Up” or something like that. The jist of the game was, you put your head on your desk and your thumb in the air while a few people would go around the room. If someone pushed your thumb down, you had to try to figure out who it was. My thumb always, ALWAYS remained in the air unless Jenny or Jacki was one of the thumb-pushers. Then it was fairly obvious who picked me.  I know it’s hard to believe, but despite my current ability to ooze cool, I was once quite the geek.

Anyway, this game played on the irresistable need that children have to stick their thumbs up in the air. Thanks to the arthritis that attacked my right thumb last year, my thumb these days is perpetually sticking up (you should see me try to hold a pen, it’s quite entertaining). But after watching my kids pose for the barrage of pictures I have been taking thanks to the recent nice weather, I am starting to think that giving the thumbs up is as instinctive as breathing or blinking.

Take a look:

 

I took this photo to demonstrate the ridiculousness that is my nearly 4-year-old still sitting in a stroller designed for a child half his age. But look at his hands.

This photo was taken after I decided to completely and utterly give up on dressing my son. Much like Jim, Hank apparently chooses his clothing by squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as possible, reaching in his closet and grabbing anything he wants. No matter how many times I say, “You don’t match,” he continues to put THIS shirt and THESE pants together. This picture is proof of two things: 1) Even when your mother is mocking you, you will still give the “thumbs up” for a photo, and 2) It’s nurture, not nature.

I’ll give him this one… bubbles ARE cool.

Being encouraged by parents will also create a need to stick that thumb in the air.

This one was tricky. It’s difficult to enjoy your Batman ice cream and give it an “aaayyyyyyyyy” at the same time, but he’s trying.

Then, of course, there is this, which you might recognize from the top of the page:

What you cannot see from the cropped photo up top (other than the fact that they both are wearing Bears hats and that is just cute) is that George has not just one but BOTH thumbs prominently in the air. A double is surely a sign of a good time!

I am not sure what to make of this phenomenon. I can only assume this uncontrollable desire to tell the world that everything is cool is just innate. It makes taking a picture difficult if you are hoping to capture a moment WITHOUT this international symbol of “everything’s all right.” But I suppose that is really the best way to capture their childhood anyway.

What do you think, boys?

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Naked politics

For the past several days, news has been non-stop over the idiotic new scandal irritatingly and ridiculously named, “bondage-gate.” I mean, for real….

Anyway, the jist of the story is, a Republican National Committee staffer spent nearly $2,000 at a naked-nudity bondage lesbian bar (what kind of business license do you think that requires?) called “Voyeur,” turned in her receipts, and got paid back for the expenditure. And OH MY GOD you would have thought she spent the money dipping babies and puppies into vats of acid.

Look, I am about as lefty-liberal as it gets. I puffy heart me some Barack Obama and would personally like to punch Sarah Palin in the face — or at least, punch her stylist in the face because for real, why does she keep wearing Michael Jackson’s clothes? But you have got to be kidding me that there is some sort of scandal involved with taking out “clients” and showing them a good time. Isn’t that all that happened here? The staffer took some potential donors out to a nudity club to show them some fun, get them a few drinks and a lap dance, and hopefully get them to bust out their own checkbooks at the end of the night. I’m not saying I necessarily approve. But it’s hardly a scandal, is it? I mean, am I missing something here? Isn’t the practice of convincing people to give you money by showing them a good time as age-old as nudity bars themselves? It’s not like she bought them hookers.

I was irritated when I heard that the staffer was fired, and get even more irritated with the incessant calls for RNC Chairman Michael Steele’s resignation. I like Steele about as much as I like Sarah Palin (though he dresses much better), and I don’t think he is nearly as smart as he thinks he is. But why should he lose his job because a staffer got people to donate money in a way that raises the collective eyebrows of America’s moral compass? And on top of it all, I have yet to hear if the outing was successful. Did the “bondage for bucks” fundraising effort work? I’ll bet it did.

For real — if you are shocked that ANY political fundraiser would try to raise those funds by taking young-to-middle-aged men to a club where the ladies are spanking each other, then you are pathetically naive. And you know who REALLY knows that? Democrats. Dudes, we practically INVENTED the idea of tricking people into giving us money by showing them a little skin. So let’s try to reign in the false shock and indignation a little, shall we? It just seems like we have a lot bigger things to worry about, and being incensed that people like to look at the boobies is pretty stupid.

I mean really, if there is a lesson here, it is more about the importance of saving your receipts. I mean, that’s just good practice.

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