The Ghosts of workout past

I have started a new workout regimen.  This isn't something that I do often... find a new routine, but every half decade or so, I go on a kick.
A brief overview.. I was a very active kid. Played soccer, track, and tennis. I rode my bike around the neighborhood, and sometimes I would just run up and down the hill in our front yard (just for fun).
It wasn't until my sophomore year of high school that my grades slipped. Damn boys, and my parents made me take a season off. They even threatened girls' school, but that is an entirely different and torrid tale.. It wasn't until my yearbook picture was taken that I noticed that I had put on quite a few lbs.  I reflect fondly on those times when sizes were just a number to me. 4,6,8, 10... it didn't matter as long as it fit.  But one Friday afternoon when I received my school picture, my world changed forever. One... why did I choose to wear a beige vest? And two,  when did I get that extra chin?  That didn't stop me from my Friday night ritual of eating pizza.  Then on a lazy Sunday morning I got out of bed ( at noon) to have Cap n' Crunch, and my mom was watching an infomercial. I was half awake when I heard the words that would be heard for the next 10 years of my life. "FAT IS WHAT MAKES YOU FAT," Susan Powter screamed. "STOP the INSANITY, STOP the INSANITY."  Yes, hindsight ( and my father)  will tell you that Fat is not the only thing that makes you fat, but it was on TV; it had to be accurate, right? It was at that very moment that I stopped eating anything with a fat gram.  My mom and I went to the grocery store and looked at every label. Fat Free?...well then, let's get it! Coffee Cakes, Milk, Frozen Yogurt, White Bread!  Ahh, to be that naive again. I had no idea about calories or servings; I just looked at the huge letters on the front of the package that read FAT FREE. This was also before mandatory nutrition labels became a law, so sometimes it was tricky.   I also joined my first gym. Fitness USA, where a pushy saleslady circled areas on a picture of a woman ( which even then looked dated) and told ME where I needed to lose weight. Mind you... I was 15 years old and was not by any means obese, especially by today's standards.  She also said that if I did just 20 minutes on a Stairmaster 3 days a week ( funny, the gym was girls only on those days and I couldn't have worked out more even if I had wanted to), I could look like Jennifer Aniston, and not only that, they had a smoothie bar with FAT FREE smoothies to "reward" myself after I worked out.  Trust me, you don't need to remind me of how ridiculous this all sounds.
It's not surprising how I caught the exercise bug.  It's genetic. My mom was always playing tennis,  doing jazzerzize and on a diet ( at 70 she still is), and my Dad is thin by nature, but jogged or walked. If there is any good in this trait, I at least hold myself 100 % accountable and not blame anyone (media, parents, my cat) for my weight gain. My siblings work out also, and my brother gets paid to take his shirt off, well sort of, but that is a long story that takes a bit to wrap your brain around so we'll hold that for another post altogether.
Miraculously, I lost weight.  I continued the Fat Free craze through my junior year of college, but I varied my workouts. I stopped going to the all-girls gym and started at the best health club in town. I did classes, got a trainer, and lifted weights properly.  I was on a pretty good path if you consider constantly worrying about my fat intake and the size of my clothes a good path.  I was like a diet info bank; if I heard any diet tidbit, I would deposit it into my "nutritional knowledge" bank and only withdraw that knowledge when needed.  One thing that probably saved my life and, in a twist of fate, allowed me to graduate from college was that I overheard a guy in the gym say that alcohol suppresses your body's ability to burn fat. DING DING DING!  I think I should find this guy and hug him. Without overhearing that, I surely would have been a lush in college.
Once in college, I worked out 7 days a week, and a boyfriend of mine introduced me to protein. Get your mind out of the gutter; I mean the benefit of good protein, and as long as I was 100 % sure it was fat-free, I would eat it. However, one time while he was making me dinner, I did see him put a tablespoon of olive oil in the water, and I didn't speak to him for days..
This, however, was a slippery slope into Atkins-ville. This was very popular at the time. But because I still had a fat gram phobia, I didn't eat red meat... So basically the next year I only ate egg whites and chicken breast, skim milk and cottage cheese. Gone were any carbs. In my mind, carbs were fat grams, evil cousin.  I also wouldn't eat past 7 PM and put a heating pad on my stomach because it hurt so bad at night.   There is no middle ground with me; it's all or nothing. I did drop weight very quickly, but my skin was horrible, I was an emotional mess, and guess what...the number on the scale became my nemesis.
I then moved to Los Angeles. A great place for a young girl pursuing acting with a borderline eating disorder to go, don't you think?
Believe it or not, this is where I found nutritional sanity. I started eating...gasp...vegetables and even fruit!  My workouts ranged from machine pilates, yoga and boxing.   When I hit yet another plateau in my mind, I hired a trainer..Albert.
*Obvious Observation: I clearly had nothing else to think about, no kids, no career and my day revolved around food and exercise... not a full life if you ask me... and a bit of a miserable one.

Back to Albert..I have only fond memories of Albert. He was (is) the best trainer I have ever had. How did I afford this, you may ask? Waitressing and the bank of Dad.
Albert and I trained 4 days a week. He discovered my ridiculous strength and taught me to be proud of it.   We lifted weights, did plyometrics, and became good friends.  I have since had 4 or 5 trainers, and each of them knew they would never live up to Albert, who, btw, is a forensic psychologist living in the Bay Area.  He is responsible for me looking so buff in my wedding photos... and after close examination, a little TOO buff.
Uh oh.  Now on to the next phase. Cardio- city.  I moved to Indiana, and 2 years after that the spinning craze finally made it here.  Two classes a day. 30 min on the elliptical and then the inevitable happened. I got. pregnant.  If you heard a world coming to a screeching halt, that was mine.
But it was divine intervention. For me to be thinking of someone other than myself (and husband on occasion) was the best thing to ever happen to me. I cared more about the health of this developing little pumpkin than my..well,  ass. I didn't want a child made of only one thing, like.., crap, so I ate a variety of food; I only exercised, sadly to say....health.
The lifetime of exercise took care of me after my 9-pound baby was born.   Once you have a baby, you don't have 4 hours to devote to working out. You don't. No matter what Tracy Anderson says.
Fast forward.  I'm 5 months out of having my 4th son. And have been bitten by yet another fitness bug.  This time it's name is P90x. (So much for easing into it right?)
I'm on day 2. I even took before pictures yesterday, which I strongly DO NOT recommend.  I have already lost all the pregnancy weight, about 2 months ago. Now I'm going for the impossible...abs.
Maybe I am standing at the intersection of Jillian Michaels and Tony Little, but I plan on taking the mommy road less traveled. I will not return to high school me or college me because it's impossible. I now drink.

I'm bringing Classy back

Katy Perry's song, California Girls, " is a salute to the attire of gals on the West Coast, but somehow it lost something by the time it reached the Midwest. But since I overheard my sassy gay friend singing a slightly modified version of the lyrics, all I can now hear is
(Midwest girls they are forgettable, pajama bottoms and hoodies on top.)
We seem to have an epidemic in this country, or at least in my region, of complete lack of attention to one's personal appearance in public.  I have to admit, this has been on my mind for some time, but my in-laws were in town this past weekend, and not much reminds me of my own personal deficiencies than the parents of the man I married.
They drove to our home for our son's baptism this weekend. They drove 14 hours. This morning as I was getting ready for work and they were getting ready to drive home, I noticed something.  My father-in-law was wearing a pressed button-down Oxford neatly tucked into his khakis and sporting a brown belt.  His shoes were shined.  My mother-in-law came down with pearls and a "smart" sweater set. It begged the question...
"Where are you going"?
"Home", they said, trying not to appear very disappointed in the obviousness of that question.
" I mean, you're not stopping anywhere first"?
" no".
Even I am a little stumped by their attire. I understand flying and wanting to look good for whomever you pass in the airport, but when you go on a road trip, the only people you will come into any sort of contact with are in truck stops, and last time I checked, Tim Gunn doesn't frequent such places.
My road trip wardrobe consists of yoga pants and a tank, possibly a cardigan, but pearls?
I mentioned that they looked nice, and somehow that began a conversation at 8:15 a.m. about the state of the country's slapdash dressing. Mind you, I was supposed to be out the door 10 minutes ago, but I will listen, as a good daughter-in-law does.
As I watch the clock tick away and half-listen, something catches my ear's fancy.  My mother-in-law tells me that when they were kids, people even dressed up for football games.  They wouldn't be caught dead in dungarees ( which, in case you were wondering, are jeans).
I glance down at my work outfit with a bit of shame; it's mainly made out of rayon and spandex, and its color palette is black with a hint of black.
After I left, 20 min. later, I started to think and dare I say, AGREE, with what she was preaching about.  How in the world did it become acceptable to wear NFL fleece pajama bottoms with knock-off Uggs and a t-shirt to get groceries?  When did it become the norm to wear jeans to church..Yes, I know " God doesn't care what you are wearing," but good Lord, I DO!
This got me thinking even more about the recent decline in style. I remember that my sister worked at Taco Bell when she was in high school and also remember that my mom would press her vintage brown and orange uniform before she left.  She also wore a cute little taco bell bandanna thing on her head. Today, Taco Bell workers were generic polo shirts with stains on them...no hat. At least I think they do, but honestly the only time I visit Taco Bell these days is after a night of heavy "socializing," and my mind is on one thing only, and that is a chalupa.
But what about the medical field?  I specifically remember the nurse at my family practitioner's office wearing a white dress, white shoes with white tights; at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that they were clean. Now I  have no clue what is stained behind those Daffy Duck or neon floral scrubs.  And screw the white shoes, let's just wear orange Crocs.

And without sounding like a cranky old prude, what is with the length of shorts and skirts on girls these days!?  Is that a Huggies jean diaper you are wearing or shorts?

It just feels better to be put together. I swear that if I have a classy outfit on, ( ok I sound little too much like my mom) who btw taught "visual poise" to every 8th grade girl who graduated from my private school from the years of 1981- 2000, even if nobody sees me, I at least know that if I were to run into someone I cared about I would walk away happy that my hair wasn't in a chignon knot on top of my head.

Oprah Australia Adventure phase 1

I have begun the paperwork process for my Australian adventure.  As I previously mentioned, I did not have a passport; I was wrong. My mom, who keeps everything, called to tell me that I did indeed have one. We had gotten it when I was 20 years old and she "found" it, but we all know she is more organized than Peter Walsh.  When looking at this photo, I thought to myself, you know, youth really IS wasted on the young. I swear I looked 15 in that photo!  And btw, I have never been out of the country; why do I have a passport?
She brought me the old passport, and we went to the post office. Prior to this, I had gone and gotten my picture taken for the passport, and I won't even begin to tell you how lovely it is.
As I was filling out the paperwork for a renewal, my mom was standing behind me like a mom of a kindergartner sending their kid on the bus on the first day of school.
"Honey, are you going to share where you are going?"
" Yes, I'm going to Australia"
" But are you going to tell them with whoooo?"
I can tell she is about to burst with maternal pride.
I said, " I won the trip to go to Australia with Oprah"
At this moment, you would have thought I was Madonna. The woman appeared to be star-struck. Maybe Oprah does have some sort of Midas touch?
So with this, she took extra care to make sure everything would be expedited properly.  She did find a snafu.  My last name has changed.  This meant I needed to go to the courthouse and get my marriage license. On a side note, this is one perk of returning to the place that you were born and raised. Birth certificates, etc are only 3 blocks away from any point in the entire city.
But before she gave me detailed instructions on how to get there (as I said, I have only lived here the majority of my life after all), she wanted to introduce me to the "girls." I was then escorted into the main post office area where she announced that I had won a trip with Oprah. The "girls" broke into laughter and glee, and it was almost as though they had won themselves! They wanted to know all about it.
Mind you, there were people in line, but they didn't seem to be bothered by this in any way, shape, or form; they too wanted to hear all about it. So I told the story, a much abridged version.  I paid $160 for a money order and off to the courthouse.  As I was leaving, though, a little old Polish woman grabbed my arm and said, "Be safe and have a blessed trip with Oprah; I'll be praying for both of you"
I was then off to the courthouse.  As I walked in, I asked the uber-friendly security guard where I could go to get a copy of my marriage license. She directed me to the basement with a hand wave.  I thought this was kind of ironic, really. They send the criminals upstairs and the ones who want to get married, give birth, buy property, etc. downstairs...

As I approached the office, I felt like I had gone back in time to a bad 1950s movie and everything was black and white or grey.  I walked into the office, and when I asked about my marriage license, I seemed to have startled them with a human voice. As I was speaking to Martha ( I read the name plate on her grey desk), she asked the month and year I was married. She then went in the back and brought out a book the size of her.  She took all of her strength to open it, and it was a handwritten ledger to search for my husband's name...
*scratching needle on the record moment*
It was too shocking not to ask...
"So, you don't have this in a computer file anywhere?"
"Nope"
Ok then.  The air was so heavy and thick and musty in there, and maybe I'm overly sensitive, but it felt like a morgue.  I needed to lift the energy in that room quickly before I too became a black and white drone.
I said, "Is this going to assist in getting my passport expedited quickly"?
"Mmm hmm", she hummed.
"Because I was selected to go to Australia with Oprah"
Do you remember in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy goes to Oz, and everything is suddenly
techno- color. I swear this is what happened to Martha. She looked up at me with her fog-filled glasses and her face looked as though rouge had been carefully placed on her cheeks.  She beamed. " Oh my goodness, I just saw that show on Monday; you were there! Are you going? What is she like?  Did you meet John Travolta? I just love him, you know he is a good pilot...."   I hate to say this, but I believe I made her day, if not her week.
That is the power of Oprah, folks, and somehow I have harnessed it.
I got back into my mom's car, who btw is still smiling.  She asked if she could take me to lunch. After we decided on a place that I could run in and grab something, she pulled me up to the door.
"Isn't it nice to have a designated driver?" she asked
"Well yes, Mom, it would be if I were..um drunk." I understood what she was saying and just let that one go.

I contacted the Oprah reps and told them about my passport; they have been in constant contact via phone with us to ensure they properly orchestrate 300 people across the world.  I must say, when she does something, she goes all out.

And now hopefully my night terrors will stop. The ones that have me at the door of the plane and Oprah saying that she was sorry but my passport was never received... and bah bye. Bah bye.

You and you and me and Oprah are going to AUSTRALIA!!!

Oh my life.  It has been no secret that I have been an Oprah fan since birth...well, ok, not birth but since I can remember. Her first show aired nationally on Sept. 13, 1986, but because I grew up close to Chicago, my mom was watching her when she aired just in Chicago.  So I honestly cannot recall not having her on my television.  History is repeating itself because each one of my boys ( that can speak) could tell you who Oprah was. They not only see her face on the television, but they also see me reading O magazine.
I'm  "O"bsessed, you could say.  I have never been secretive about it either.  Anyone knows that if you are friends with me, you also take along my Oprah baggage.
Well, I was pretty sad to see that this was her last season.  Yes, it's been 25 years, and yes, she is 56 years old, but Betty White is close to 90, and I don't see her quitting her day job. But  I was just grieving in my OWN (get it Oprah Winfrey Network) way ahh Oprah humor never gets old.

So I was cruising her website just like any other day and noticed an icon asking-
Are you Oprah's Ultimate Fan?  Well, yes, yes, I am. So I filled out the form, which asked 3 or 4 questions defending my fanhood.   I didn't put a lot of thought into it; I was just honest.

You can say whatever you want about her, but in my opinion she is a world changer, humorous, and an all-around good egg.
Not long after I filled out the form, I was called by an Oprah staff member who asked me to elaborate on my answers...nooooo problem. After  I expatiated on Oprah for around 45 minutes, she said they would be in touch, but she did ask me to send her my photo....which I thought was interesting.
I didn't hear anything for a few days, and then I received an email asking if I would want to be an audience member. I was at work, busy, and just overlooked it.  I had been to an Oprah show before, and it was great, but I was just caught up in life and thought, how can I take a day off,  arrange pickups and drop-offs of the boys, etc.?  That evening I received a call around 9 pm from another Oprah rep. This time she asked me why I didn't respond, and she would really like me to go to the Sept. 9 taping.
Hold up.  Oprah wants ME to be at the taping? Well ok then!  I then called my best friend who also supports my Oprah fetish, and she said that " I made her life".
So off to Chicago we went.  It only took me about 2 hours to get there, and it was such a pleasant drive, actually listening to my music...not kids bop, or Backyardigans.
I arrived and pulled up to the studio; there was some guy on the corner that said
"You goin to the Oprah show?"
"Why, yes, yes I am."
" I'll park your car for $12"
"  You're so nice, Ok" I then threw my stilettos on the pavement, put them on, grabbed my purse and made a bee line to Oprah-ville."

*Looking back, this was probably not one of my smartest moments, thankfully the guy was legit and my car was retrieved. Only after he told me I looked like Sandra Bullock in the Blind Side....

I did notice, however, that this was different. I felt an excitement that wasn't there before. After going through a metal detector and having our purses searched, they allowed us access to the holding room. I did find it interesting that they confiscated my September issue of O magazine...but I could live without it for a few hours.  I told my bff that my only goal was to have eye contact with her.
When we got into the studio, they explained that when they posted the question on the website that received over 20,000 emails in the first day! They narrowed it down to 100 or so and let Oprah read them. She had the ultimate say on who would attend her season premiere.
She likes me, she REALLY likes me! I had NO idea that the show I was attending was going to be THE show.
The excitement in the studio that day was thick. While waiting to enter the studio, several people broke into a chant: We love Oprah, We love Oprah." Ok. As do I, but I also have a quiet dignity...
Once in the studio, we were chosen to sit in the front row with the knowledge that in the second half we would need to move. OK by me.  Oprah is exactly the same on television as she is in person; she is authentic. My friend can also be seen mouthing..." she's gorgeous" in the first 2 min. of the show.

Fast forward to the exclamation YOU. Are going with ME (Oprah) to AUSTRALIA!!!! You, and you and you and you.
At this point I went into a Hypovolaemic Oprah-shock. Screaming. Jumping. Hugging.  I then was overwhelmed with a few thoughts.
1. When? Now?
2. Oh crap. Now my husband is going to be a little peeved that I didn't take him.
3. I don't have a passport.
4. 10 days total? Should I leave the boys that long?
5. Snap out of it, you're going to be with Oprah and Travolta on the other side of the world!
6. How am I going to keep this a secret for 5 days?
7. Will Hugh Jackman be there?

Next thing I know, four of us are being escorted to the stage to have a photo with Oprah wearing Australian hats.  Then taken to the other side of the stage where Oprah is standing to take another photo!
I'm literally eye level * goal reached * with her.  I said, " Thank you so much, but honestly, you could have taken me to downtown Chicago, and as long as I was with you, I would have been happy"
She then grabbed my hand and laughed. I said, I have never even been out of the country." She said, Really? I'm so happy we are going to Australia then!
At that moment. My life value, in my humble opinion, increased tenfold. It was the 5th happiest day of my life
1. Marrying Don.
2. Birth of son #1.
2. Birth of son #2
3. Birth of son #3
4. Birth of son #4
5. Talking to Oprah.

Oprah brings out the best in humanity. She is a self-made icon, and she did it by being generous to others.  I have shared this with my friends, family, and Facebook friends and have felt nothing but overwhelming support and excitement.
As we left the studio after filling out tons of paperwork, there was a new friendship among us. We quietly told each other...see you in December as we crossed the street. I look forward to documenting my amazing journey in December.
http://www.eonline.com/videos/v71609_oprah-surprises-audience-with-trip.html

Do you have any "real" sugar around here?

This past weekend we had a house guest.  A house guest with our same last name, but not a relative.
An eighty-five-year-old man. How can I be friends with someone 50 years my senior? Well, funny you should ask. My husband has recently become slightly obsessed with our Scottish Clan heritage.  Interestingly, as his father aged, he too became a genealogy buff, which is another item I can add to the ever-growing list of my husband turning into his dad...But I digress; that is an entirely different post altogether.
Recently, the commissioner of our clan decided to hang up his sporran and hand down the commissioner-ship to another eager young man...that would be Don.
He nominated himself and was unanimously elected.
This means he goes around to area highland games and puts up a tent with anything and everything you would ever want to know about our Clan and how you fit into the grand scheme of things. His dad has traced both of our families back to Scotland in the 1600's. Yes, I'm Scottish American too. In fact our mothers are both Irish and our fathers Scottish (12th generation) and I have a feeling that is why Don wanted me to bare his children...but once again I digress...
So because these Highland Games were local, he invited this man to stay at our home to avoid the four-hour drive from his hometown.  I don't need to remind anyone that we have 4 kids. Our house is at maximum occupancy, and this means that our older son gets booted out of his room and it turns into a guest room with a bathroom...perfect for seniors.  But the only thing I know about this man, whom I have met twice, is that he is old, and we share the same last name. That's it. And he will be in our house, upstairs with our kids alone. Maybe I'm a bit cautious, but I have seen my share of To Catch a Predator, and I'm not going to take a chance. So the 3 older kids are shipped to Grandma and Grandpa's house for a sleepover. This would usually mean a kid-free night with wine, movies, sleep, even if the baby stayed home. But one senior citizen in my calculations is equal to or greater than 3 boys when it comes to attention given. And so I would learn.
I prepared for his visit by going shopping for soft food. The last time he was here, Don took him to lunch, and he only ate soup, so I assumed it was a denture issue.  I bought bananas, soup, and lemon meringue pie. Pasta?
I came home, and he had arrived.  It was 4:30...dinner time!  He suggested we go out, which I was more than happy to oblige. We went to the Olive Garden. I think the last time I dined at the Olive Garden was about 5 years ago, and it was our only option on a long road trip. Not much has changed. Breadsticks...Salad....label-less table wine.
On a side note: our waitress asked if Oscar needed a kids menu, or if he would like to color... he is 4 months old), so naturally the answer was
WTF?
I learned a couple things about our senior friend at dinner,  one is when the hostess says "watch your step" chances are she is speaking to him and don't bring up politics to a 3 time war veteran unless you REALLY want to know AND if there isn't anyone of Mexican heritage in ear shot.
I discovered that he is pretty hip for an 85 yr. old. He has a computer, and even orders his underwear online from Hanes.com. He prefers the elastic waistband on Hanes because it doesn't dig into his scar... the scar he has from his hip replacement, which he just happened to have a photo of in his wallet. You know, just typical dinner conversation.
I also was humbled to discover that our house is not as senior-equipped as I thought.  Some of our rugs slip; we have child locks on well...everything.  We don't have real sugar.  We don't have whole milk, and we don't have butter. What we do have is night lights, which I learned are a must for frequent late-night bathroom visits.
Because my typical nighttime routine consists of bathing 4 boys, bedtime stories and kisses, my time was a bit freed up. I only had to bathe one, who can't talk, so that took about 10 min. Then I would usually have a glass of wine or two, sit on the couch and vegetate in front of the reality show du jour. But tonight was different.  We sat at the kitchen island, and we visited. We talked for 3 hours.
I discovered how he felt when he was actually in the Normandy invasion, what it smelled like, what it looked like.  My only reference to that is in Saving Private Ryan, which, when asked, said it only captured a fraction of the horror.
I also learned that he married his wife when he was 21 and that he misses her every day; she died 10 years ago. He shared that because he was in the Navy, his wife wanted only 2 children; they had 2 sons and practiced "safe sex," but he couldn't resist her touch when he came home from Vietnam, and they conceived his daughter. A little TMI, but I just listened.
He shared what it was like to work hard and only buy what they could afford.  He built their house in 1966. He also shared that he has lost 4 of his 5 siblings. That 2 of his nephews fell through the ice one winter and drowned.  He shared his strong faith.
He also shared that he likes to bowl and has quite a busy schedule.  I learned that "go suck an egg" in old speak is pretty much the equivalent of "go fuck yourself "
I realized in my cyber static world I haven't taken the time to tap into the richest resource our humankind has, walking history.  My grandparents all passed away between 1997-2000. All four of them.  I regret not listening to them when I had a chance.
Overall, it was a big kick in the kilt.  All my moaning and groaning was, albeit, justified at the time, but this visit was a bit of an eye-opener; maybe real sugar isn't evil, maybe...
I have already started planning our next visit with our adoptive grandparent with the same last name but no relation.

Britney was on to something...

Do you remember not too long ago when a photo of Britney Spears emerged of her in a barber shop, with a slightly certifiable look in her eye, shaving her own head?  People were outraged, thought she was insane, laughed at her, mocked her on various talk shows, but what people didn't realize is that she was on to something.
I would find it quite liberating to buzz my hair off. I thought of this today as I was getting ready.  From 5:30 a.m. to 8:15 a.m., every second of each minute seems to have an albeit trivial, purpose in my morning. As soon as my feet reluctantly hit the floor I'm doing something for someone else, pulling underwear down, pulling underwear up, filling a sippy cup with ovaltine, no apple juice, no grape juice, placing vitamins next to breakfast bowls,  pouring cereal, dumping uneaten cereal in the sink, burning my hand on a pop tart, spitting on my hand to smooth hair, putting toothpaste on toothbrushes, feeding the dog, giving the dog a vitamin, making coffee, changing the channel to Maggie and the Ferocious Beast, changing a diaper,  making 3 lunches, burning my lip on coffee, tucking shirts in, ignoring stains on uniform shorts, finding my husband's wallet, finding my husband's cell phone, stepping on a lego and then I get a chance to step into the bathroom with my chocolate lab underfoot.  He insists on being in the bathroom with me; it is his feeble attempt to escape the chaos outside the door, as well.  He looks at me as if to say..." this is not what I signed up for 10 years ago when I joined this family" we have an understanding...As I stand in front of the mirror, I don't know if I'm going to have a solid 5 or 10 minutes to get myself ready. I look myself in the eye for about 2 seconds and try to decide if I can get away with not washing my hair today, which would save me a good four minutes.
Britney Spears was a genius.  Of all the things I could or should be thinking of, this is what runs through my head.
I pull my hair back tight and actually consider for a moment what I would look like with a buzz cut.  I certainly don't have the bone structure, but maybe.. I... could pull it off.   As I place my blonde nest of frizz in a knot on top of my head and step in the shower, I seriously eye ball the razor and think.....
I'm then jolted out of my morning fantasy by Jack who announces that he prefers Yo Gabba Gabba to Maggie and the Ferocious beast and that his brother, Oscar is demanding that I change the channel...even though Oscar is 4 months old.
My shower time is over.  I didn't wash my hair today, and it looks anything but professional in a ponytail, but for a moment Britney Spears and I saw eye to eye.

Thats not my name.

There is a pet peeve of mine that I'm in a bit of a conundrum as to how to handle it.  People do not get my name right... ever.  Since I have known my own name, it has been mistaken for Nicole.  I thought it was because there was another Nicole in my grade school class, but she never got called Noelle.  So how do I handle this? Obviously I'm not doing it the right way because if I was there wouldn't be repeat offenses.  Usually, if someone first meets me and calls me Nicole by mistake, I correct them immediately. But what about someone you have known for years...like, oh, I don't know, your mother-in-law? Or what about co-workers?  I don't like to interrupt someone, but seriously, that's not my name.  Or the worst is at work when I'm in a meeting and someone refers to me as Nicole.  Last year, my boss, who knows how much it irritates me, stopped the meeting and corrected the offender.  Now that was embarrassing. I have to say the close second to the worst was when I overheard my now husband on the phone after we had been dating for at least two weeks say " Oh, I'm just sitting here with Nicole"  In his "defense" he claims that the last two girls he "dated" were both named Nicole. You can bet I haven't let him forget it.
Today however I received an email, that began "hi Nicole" after the person sent it to my email address, which btw has my name in it.  I responded to this by signing my name and putting a P.S.: my name is NOELLE. Guess what. He responded. It said. Thanks, Nicole.

Its Raining Men...

My life does not have a shortage of men.  In wondering how this came about, I was lost in thought about my childhood. My very first best friend's name was Noah in first grade.  He and I had chicken pox together.  He could run fast and liked to play with cars. I was obsessed with the Smurfs, which coincidentally had only one female character.. I had a boy Cabbage Patch Kid.   I was the only girl invited to all-boy birthday parties. When I was in the sixth grade, I met my first gay boyfriend; my parents would let him spend the night. My mom said that she felt good knowing I was hanging out with a boy in public; that way he would protect me. The truth is, I probably would have been the one doing the protecting. I have a big brother...but also a big sister.
Fast forward through high school and college, and I always had a boyfriend. Our dog is a boy.  Now married, I have four sons. I work with all men, and the other night when we had our close friends over for dinner,  I realized that I was again the only girl.  Am I actively trying to avoid the female race? Is there something in my genetics that only produces the male gene?
I do have a handful of close girlfriends. In fact, I just had one of my closest girlfriends visit, and within 30 minutes of her entering the door I started my period. NO JOKE. I hadn't had an actual cycle since my last son was born.  I guess all I needed was a straight dose of estrogen.
I guess I have had a couple of problems with girls in the past.  I have been accused of flirting with girls' companions or significant others, and pretty soon the friendship fizzles. But perhaps what I'm doing is just communicating on their boy level, nothing more and nothing less.

Perhaps my life is just a modern-day Smurf episode. Just call me Smurfette.

Young Entrepreneurs

It's one of the hottest summer days we have had so far, and the boys decided they wanted to sell something. Lemonade stands have been pretty popular around our neighborhood as of lately. So they wanted to be unique, and they found the sno cone machine we have hidden in the basement, hoping that someday they will forget about it.  It was a gift from my in-laws about 3 years ago and it is the biggest pain in the a** to operate, especially for a kid. It's Mickey Mouse, and you dump ice in his head to make crushed ice and then put syrup over it. This has been a problem because we never have sno cone syrup handy. Who does? Plus it's not the first thing on my mind when going to the grocery store. We have used anything from alcohol mixers to the syrup in a jar of cherries.  This time, however, Don got the freeze pops that need to be frozen in their natural pre-frozen state. It was actually perfect.
It was, however,  a production to
a) make the stand
b) run electricity to the sidewalk
c) keep the ice... ice.
They managed to make the stand out of the box our sectional came in (once again, a reason to toot my own horn about the sectional being a wise choice) and a little paint and saw horses. The electricity was done with extension cords. I was at work when all of this took place, so I was a bit surprised when I came home to find a stand that looked a lot like Nancy's advice stand from Peanuts.
Parker and Fin were ecstatic and sweating like crazy. I had no idea the determination and drive that they had hidden deep inside of themselves. Parker worked zealously to crush the ice while Finegan took orders and poured the syrup.  At the end of the day, they made $21.91. Not sure how that is possible considering they were 25 cents each.  And that they were only "working" for an hour.

It's funny what will bring neighbors outside.  I think we all have had ( if we were lucky) been able to experience our first lemonade or Kool-Aid stand as kids. Seeing one as an adult just brings us back to our childhood in some way.   Our customers were very generous; one guy even gave the boys "5 whole dollars" and didn't even take a sno cone because he said they just looked like they were working hard.

The highlight of my day, however, is when a neighbor who has a dog named Ralph stopped by.  Parker is slightly dog obsessed and makes his way around the block to visit neighbors' dogs 5 total) regularly.  He recently had his glasses bitten and crushed by a puppy, but that is an entirely different story in which the details keep changing. Anyway, she expressed that our sons were little gentlemen and just very kind-hearted. They were always polite and pleasant to be around.  At first I wondered if she had me confused with another mom, my boys? The ones who fight because they "saw" someone fart?

Indeed, she was, and before breaking down in tears in front of the abandoned sno cone stand, I just politely said thank you and went inside.

Bike pooling

Ahh summer. It is time for the boys to play outside, after being forced and threatened, and it's a time for me to ride my bike to work. I find it quite exhilarating to ditch a car for three months and have the freedom to pedal my way to the office.  I like to imagine myself as a classy dame in the 1940's as I ride my new version of an old classic bike in Tiffany blue.  The morning commute allows me to actually notice things that I may not have otherwise, like neighbors.  To get a verbal good morning and a tip of a hat from walkers on the sidewalk or an actual hello from a fellow bicycler is like riding through the set of Pleasantville.
I wouldn't dream of talking on my cell phone, or texting anyone, or listening to my iPod on my commute. It's just a seven-minute ride of tranquility.  I notice so much more, and I can tell you I think of nothing but riding my bike and avoiding cars.
Figuring out how to carry my coffee was a challenge.  But now I take a stainless steel thermos in my tote, which is in the baby seat, which I sometimes pretend isn't there... ( it does look kind of dorky). The temptation to drive through Starbucks doesn't exist, and I save on gas and coffee.
I have to admit, I'm spoiled because I have sidewalks the entire distance from my house to my office, which I use. I'm not going to dare ride on the street; I tried that once, and it was horrible. Cars got too close, and I had flashes of ambulances and news crews to report a 30-something female fell off her bike.
Unless I can figure out how to pile 4 kids on my bike, I will be saying au revoir to the bike-pooling, and in just a couple weeks I will be back to my tired old mini-van taking the boys to school and childcare.  Pulling up to pre-school next to the 40 other 2007-2010 model minivans in colors ranging from gold to beige.  Waiting in line at Starbucks to order a skinny latte right behind the mom on her cell phone ordering the same thing, all while listening to the Backyardigans soundtrack.
But for right now, just for my seven minutes, I will be that French dame riding past a vineyard with a fresh baguette I picked up from the baker down the cobblestone street with plans to meet her lover for a picnic overlooking a field of wildflowers.

The great lengths I will go to for a sectional.

I have been on the search for the perfect sectional for the past year. A YEAR.  I have had money saved up to actually purchase it with cash, but have spent that money twice on other things.  I believed my search was going to continue until I stumbled upon IKEA's sectional. It was perfect. The problem is, that  its over 2 hours away, and renting a uhaul was a tumultuous task, given that I had not seen the piece in person. I, however, was willing to take the journey.  Then I happened to be in Sam's Club buying diapers with my oldest son when this Broyhill sectional caught my eye.  It was chocolate brown, stain-resistant, and smaller than your average sectional. It was love at first sit. Now I had to get it home. This proved to be just as difficult.  Sam's Club does not deliver. Something that I have a great respect for now. After tracking down someone to help me, I asked them to direct me to the aisle with the boxes in it.  They were huge! Bigger than I thought, but it was destiny, and by God I was going to bring that home.  Given strict instructions and bribed with a large blue icee, Parker (7) even agreed to keep our find on the down low.
Yes, I did not mention this to my husband. I know that sounds a bit sneaky, but he has a way of not approving of such things as furniture as a wise spending choice when we have a perfectly great sofa at home.  So I knew that a special operation, I'll call "operation sectional" was going to be needed in order to execute my plan.  This was a bit more stressful than I had thought.
First, I needed to take a day off of work.  
Second, I needed to rent a trailer
Third, get a babysitter
Fourth, get the older sofa out of the way.
Fifth, tell Don
The first and third tasks were actually the easiest part. The trailer rental was a new territory for me.  I rented it from a place called Hub Cap Annie's.  Walking into this place was like walking into a world I didn't know existed.  Hub caps and signs are everywhere. Signs like, $10 charge for reading this sign... you get the idea. The two men at the desk were just looking at me, with what appeared to be sympathy as I crossed a threshold of manliness.   Thankfully, I convinced my dad to come with me, who knew their language.  
Next thing I knew, I was backing the Expedition up to a trailer, and they were hooking it up.  My dad said, are you ready to drive?  
*A note about my dad- he taught me how to drive and has great pride in my vehicular aptitude.
After it was hooked up, we were on our way.  My husband was reluctantly along for the ride, but had no idea what he was in for.  Driving with a trailer is very strange. I have a new appreciation for semi truck drivers who have to make right turns and little cars try to pass or get frustrated. Never again! I couldn't believe that people had the audacity to pass me. Did they not understand that I was driving 25 mph for a reason and second that I was a trailer virgin?
Arriving at Sam's, we backed up to the dock, and it was quite easy. They loaded it onto the trailer and we were on our way. Getting in the house wasn't that difficult either; however, 2 hours had already elapsed.
We simply just needed to get the existing couch to the basement.   Let me just tell you that this is where we...ok (I) fell short in preparation.
I had purchased this couch at Z Gallery in Santa Monica in 2000 while in college.  I actually made payments on it because at the time I was working as a waitress next door. I would take my tips and make small payments over a 6-month period.  By the time I had finally paid it off and had it custom ordered I had moved to a different apartment on a second floor. They had to hoist the couch on top of the moving truck and use ropes to pull it over the balcony and into my apartment. But somehow I forgot about this.
This couch has major sentimental value, and I was not going to let it go anywhere.  A large overstuffed couch and a 1931 Bungalow really don't get along, and here is why.

Doorways. People were smaller then and didn't need big doorways, or big couches for that matter.


With a little creativity and minor surgery involving a saw and leg amputation, we were able to stuff our couch into the basement, and there it will forever rest.


And as I placed the final cushions on the new section, I discovered that its manufacturing date was indeed my birthday. Yes. It was destiny after all.

Mommy Supremacy

This weekend I realized I have an infinite amount of power over the developing minds of my boys. Several conversations came up, and questions arose that I found myself with two options: answer correctly, or make something up.  Admitting that I did not know the answer was just not possible.
The topic was poop. The question was
Does a grouper fish poop?
Yes.
In the water?
Yes.
Is it the same water we drink?
Well. Kind of, yes.
Ew. So we drink poop water?
No.
Does everything poop?
Yes, everything that is living poops.
So plants poop?
No.
But you said....
I  know.
Without warning, the topic transcended to robbers.  They asked
Why do robbers steal things, and why don't they just go to work?
Well, I said, they think it's easier to steal.
Like, when the guy stole your purse?
Yes, there are just some bad people out there.  
If God made everything, then why did he make robbers?
Yes, God did make everyone, but he also gave everyone free will, and people just make evil choices.
Evil? Why do Evil people have red eyes?

Another smooth transition

Is there another baby in your tummy? Because it looks like it.
This is when I snapped a bit and asked him to stop asking me that. I have had 4 babies, and the last one was 4 months ago. What do you expect, kid?
 No!
Well, how do you know?
 I just do.
Well, if there is, I hope this one is dark-skinned.
It won't be.
Why?
This went into a genetics discussion about how 2 light skinned persons do not have a dark skinned baby. But our neighbor has 2 light-skinned parents, and she is dark skinned, yes, but she is from Haiti, and she grew in a different woman, but her mommy is still her mommy.
Was I in a different lady's tummy before yours?
NO!
Then one said to his brother, "Yes, you were"

Seriously, this took place in a 7 min. car ride to Target.  These are tough questions.  And they warn you about texting and driving. What about interrogating and driving?  One slip of the tongue, and you can taint the outlook of your kid forever.

When I was a little girl, I asked my mom why the headstones in this one particular cemetery were flat. And she said because it was nighttime and they put them in the ground. Somewhere there was a communication breakdown. Because up until I was 13, I believed that the headstones had some remote feature that would put the headstones in the ground.  Of course, she denies any recollection of this conversation.  Hey...maybe that is the answer.

Denial!

My brother told his first daughter that cantaloupe was pronounced cant-a-loop-ay.  Perfect example of how the gift of parenthood, if given to the power-hungry individual, can have magnificent consequences.  She is 15 now, and I'm sure she knows that he was just joking.....maybe, and a cruel joke at that.

Are Thank You notes dead?

I don't consider myself old-fashioned. I feel like I'm pretty trendy and try and keep up with the latest style, etc. But the one thing I have noticed in my generation is that handwritten thank you notes are obsolete.  The only people I get thank you notes from are from my mother and mother-in-law. My mom will snail mail one to me in what seems like a New York minute. My mother in law will send me a thank you for a thank you. My mom always forced me to write thank you notes as a kid. It was brutal. And it wasn't one of those generic one-size-fits-all thank you notes; it was detailed.
When I went to college, I kind of let this habit stay at home. It wasn't until I had spent a fabulous weekend at my then boyfriend's parents' house in Rancho Santa Fe. It was breathtaking. The home, the accommodations, the company, and the food.  I left and went on my way. Then a couple of weeks went by, and my said boyfriend told me that his mom had asked why I hadn't written a thank you note.

I felt as though the wind had been knocked out of my body. I had spent the entire time trying to impress them, but I fell horribly short when I simply forgot to thank them. She was right to be upset!   I figured that it was better late then never and I sent her a much-belated note of gratitude.   Lesson learned.  Now I understand her dissatisfaction with my lack of appreciation.  If my boys ever bring home a girl, they had better thank me... but really, will they ever find anyone good enough for them in my eyes? Doubtful.
So the other lesson I have learned is handwritten thank you notes are a great way to show that you appreciate whatever it was that the person gave to you, said to you, or just to say thanks for friendship.
In my jewelry box, I have one of the best thank you notes from my late grandpa. Its on a piece of paper the size of a sticky note, and in shaky cursive writing it says
"Happy Birthday, your grandma always loved making you cakes. Thank you."
I don't know if it was a birthday note or a thank you note, but I'm glad he wrote it.
My point is that yes, you can send a quick text or post it on their wall, but when its all said and done, being able to hold something is so much better than it being lost in spam.

I have now continued the thank you note writing with my boys. They think it's agonizing, but if they grow up to be gentlemen, then I did my job.
Just as I am wrapping up this post, a family friend who we invited to Jack's 3rd birthday party overheard me say that I couldn't find Jack the one Yo Gabba Gabba character he wanted, Muno (he is very popular). I had searched for months, online, every store I could think of, with no luck.  She said she happened to be in Big Lots and found Muno; she bought it for Jack and made a special visit to deliver his Muno.
Off I go to write a thank you note.....

Television and my children

I came into work today exhausted.  My 3-year-old decided to wake up at 4-something, right after the baby got up.  Jack doesn't really understand that at that hour his voice does not need to be as loud as he is at a park. But since the baby had just been up, I was somewhat coherent.  Per his request, I got him a drink and a Pop-Tart. Then I was off to the gym.  But to keep the rest of the house sleeping, I turned on Sesame Street and left him content on the couch.
I don't think that there is any harm in that. But as I checked my work email this morning, right there smack in my face is this article form WebMd saying that too much TV is harmful to tots.   As if I don't already feel the guilt de jour of being a working mommy, now I have this. I immediately sent the article to my husband.  Who by the way, is a teacher and is home with 4 boys this summer. I felt that I could warn him of the imminent danger of TV watching today.  How does my mind allow me to get caught up in this?  I doubt he will read it.
On average in the summer, if the weather is poor, I would say our boys watch about 2-3 hours of TV a day. Now, although that number is slightly alarming its not all at the same time. Let's use today for example.  Jack will be awake from 4:30 a.m.-8:30 p.m. with an hour nap.
That is 15 hours.   He has already watched 1 hour of tv
add a half hour before his nap,
a 1/2 hour while we make dinner, now we are up to 2 hours.
Then about an hour before bed.
To me, that doesn't seem like too much. What this article failed to discuss is what the kids are watching. I'm certainly not going to put him in front of a True Blood episode, or even icarly for that matter.  It's Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, or Baby Einstein. I don't have any expectations that this will do anything but entertain or relax my nocturnal little boy.
Yes, in an ideal world I would have my house set up in the most Montessori natural setting for my boys, but that world is not our world.

Plus, I enjoy watching them laugh. Life is too short to cut out a little cheap entertainment once in a while. 

"I can't believe you have 4 kids"

I have returned to the workplace. In body, of course, not exactly in mind.

What I find interesting is that everyone kind of left me alone for the first month or so. They think I'm going to be overwhelmed with emails, etc., so they just pop in to say hello and leave. I have a feeling in August I will get 4,000 emails.

The one statement I hear on a regular basis is, “You don't look like you have had 4 kids,” or “I can't believe you have 4 kids.”

What does a typical woman who has 4 kids look like anyway?

My response to this is usually a smile. I honestly don't know if it's a compliment or not. Like, based on my maturity level, I cannot handle 4 kids. I'm possibly reading too much into it.

But if you think about it, how a woman is expected to look is kind of determined by their region. Say I'm in LA, where women are expected to look like a model 3 months after they deliver, but I live in the Midwest, where it's perfectly acceptable to have a belly 5 years after you have a baby.

I, however, believe that a combination of diet, a lifetime of exercise, and genetics have made it possible to lose the weight quickly. With that said, I in no way am 100% delighted with the way my body looks.

No way.

But have I ever really been?

A little history.

She has a degree in theater, which she has never used. Except to talk her way into getting a real job in publicity at a University. The degree also came in handy to meet her husband of 9 years Don, whom she met in Los Angeles, when they were both out of work actors. After their first date they both agreed that the world was overpopulated and having kids was just selfish and somewhat gluttonous. The two now live in the Midwest and are raising their four young and crazy sons.