Okay, last holiday post

So, the holidays are almost over. I really really hate when this happens. January, in particular, sucks the big one when all the eating, drinking and being merry we’ve done for the last 6 weeks is no longer acceptable. The only thing we have to look forward to is cold and snow and… more snow and cold. And MLK Jr. Day.

All in all, it was a good Christmas. Our boys, who have not been able to sleep apart for the last year or so (even though they have their own rooms), received a bunk bed from Santa. Their response?

“Gee, thanks, Santa. And... where are the Legos?”

And, after I attempted to put the sheets on the top bunk, I was asking the same thing.

My Christmas traditions haven’t changed much since getting married and having children. Aside from missing Christmas Eve with my extended family, things have pretty much stayed the same. I still spend most of Christmas Day in my PJs at my mother’s. We still eat Eggs Benedict for brunch, we still joke about how the hollandaise curdled that one time, we still have assigned seats for present opening, and, even though my mother spends most of the day complaining, it’s still a little slice of heaven.

Since I am not the Great Giver of Gifts (my mother had previously held that title until she gave the boys bedding as a gift [my sister currently holds that title as she presented them with Nerf guns this year – and thank you, Meemee, for that one]), the boys like it at my parents’ just as much. The place where they get more than just underwear and socks. And educational toys. Their bounty is… bountiful plentiful at my parents’. So much so, I don’t know where we’re going to put it all once it is out from under our Christmas tree. And, even though I expressly instructed my family, “NO MORE LEGOS,” we are, again, knee-deep in little plastic jagged-edged pieces I can’t seem to not step on.

I wonder if the boys would notice if half their gifts disappeared by the new year?

Because I work in an office above a shopping center, I shop for myself. Often. So, I gave my husband a much needed break and asked for only one thing for Christmas: P90X2. I have been pretty lax about exercising for the last, oh, 3 or so months, knowing I’d be getting the P90X2 for Christmas. And I had plenty of rationalizations for skipping exercise:

• I’m getting P90X2 for Christmas. I start my new workout regime in the new year.
• I’ll just sit here on the couch and do butt clenches. That counts as exercise, right?
• It’s too cold (warm, rainy, snowy) to get to the gym. I’ll do 100 crunches before bed. (I didn’t.)
• My yoga instructor took the last 2 weeks off from classes. Surely, I can, too.

But, now that the holidays are almost over and I did get what I asked for, it’s time to start P90X2. I watched the “Watch This First” video yesterday and, I have to admit, I’m scared. I’d never seen so many warnings on an exercise program. I feel like I should get a full body check-up (including blood work and body scans) before putting the first DVD in the player. How’s my heart?  Have I updated my will?  Will it all be worth it if I never see my children graduate?

But, I’m going to do it. I enjoyed tolerated did the first P90X and now kind of miss Tony, so I’m looking forward to doing it willing to do it again.

I hope I survive.

Until then, we’ll be hosting New Year’s Eve at our house. A fun group where the kids outnumber the parents, we’ll all be in our PJs, eating, drinking and being merry one last time before I quite possibly end up in the hospital for liver strain.

Let the games begin!

Another holiday post

So, every year at Christmas, I host at least one party.  I love having people at the house.  It's a lot of work to pull off a good party, but I enjoy it.  Since my dear sister lives in Texas, she doesn't get to see our friends that often.  I normally throw a party when she gets home where she can see everyone at once.  This year, another friend is hosting that party, so that left me with no party to have.  I even got out of hosting Christmas Eve with the husband's family this year. 

I couldn't go without a party this season (at the very least, to cover other people in glitter), so I invited a few of our new friends over on Friday for a Euchre tournament.  Since our basement flooded and TV blew up (all over Thanksgiving weekend - yeah, that was awesome), we had recently replaced the carpeting and TV down there (which effectively made the basement the greatest room we'll never use).  We threw the Wii and the kids in the basement so we could eat, drink and be merry on the main floor.

I go through a routine every time before having a party.  I panic over the menu, I worry about the things that still need to be fixed in our house (is it possible to replace the dining room carpeting before the party?), I curse living with all boys (can't they at least try to aim?). 

Sounds fun, right?  It must be awesome living with me.

But, by the time people show up, the house is in pretty good shape, there are wonderful smells coming from the kitchen and the alcohol is flowing freely (or it could be that because the alcohol is freely flowing all those other things are happening).  At any rate, it's all good.

And, these people are great.  They like to drink, they like to laugh, they like to play cards.  What could be better?

A week before the party, I discussed the menu with my sister.  Because she's a fantastic host, I get all my ideas from her.  My plan was to offer heavy appetizers for us and pizza for the kids.  My sister gave me recipes for a hot spinach and artichoke dip, olive cheese puffs, artichoke appetizers on party pumpernickel and a feta cheese appetizer.  It was my first time making 2 of those things and I didn't kill anyone!  Success!

My husband's birthday was the day before the party.  He had been hinting for about a year now that he wanted the XBox 360 with Kinect.  I had to admit it looked pretty cool, so I didn't judge my 38-year-old husband for wanting a gaming system for Christmas (not much anyway).  My idea was that we could use it at the party, so I also got him the dance game.  Because what guy doesn't want a dancing game?

After I lost every. single. hand of Euchre, we brought out the XBox.  One of our guests had to chug an entire beer to be coerced into dancing, but he did it.  And man, it was fun.  As much as I love to dance, I've now realized I'm a terrible dancer.  Well, according to the XBox anyway.  But?  Fun.

And, even though I nursed a slight hangover most of the weekend (I am not a morning after hangover person, I am usually a second day hangover person, wtf?), I had a great time.  And somehow, because of the success of this party, we are now hosting New Years Eve.  Yay! 

I gotta practice my booty bump.

I want to dance! (aka It's so beautiful, I want to cry)

So, my mother, SIL and I took my 7-year-old and my 6-year-old niece to see the Nutcracker on Saturday. It had been a long-standing tradition (read:  we went more than once) of ours to see the Nutcracker ballet growing up.  Back when this city had a ballet company.  And people actually ventured downtown for something other than work.  You know, the good ol' days.

Over the years, traveling ballet companies would make their trip to our desolate city to perform the Nutcracker and we'd (sometimes) go.  I had my first amaretto sour at the Nutcracker. 

Ah, the good ol' days.

Of course, I couldn't possibly introduce my 7-year-old to the wonders of amaretto sours.  We'll save that for next year (kidding!  Don't call Child Services on me.).  But, he had learned the story of the Nutcracker in music class (I need to write that woman a thank you note), so when I told him they were coming to town, he said he'd go (read:  he said, "I'll go if you want me to.") 

Such a good kid.

So, we went.  I've seen several performances in my life.  Some beautiful, some a little creepy (who is that Doppleheimer guy anyway?  Oh.  Drosselmeyer.  Whatever.  Sometimes, he's been a little creepy, wringing his hands maniacally.).  This one was good.  No creepies.  The stage was decorated beautifully, the costumes were lovely, the dancing was wonderful.  Made you want to be a ballerina.

(I took ballet as a child.  One season.  During our performance at the end of the season, I got horrible stage fright and refused to leave the ballet bar.  I was sure all the parents were looking at me.  Hey, I was FOUR.  What did I know?  Alas, my dream of becoming a ballet dancer was over.)

Instead, I watch.  And acknowledge the amazing things those dancers can do.  Nowadays, instead of just appreciating the beauty, I admire the incredible stamina they must have.  I mean, for me to get into some of those positions would take a lot of yoga.  Or alcohol.  And I'd most likely really really hate myself in the morning.

I wanted my 7-year-old to appreciate the beauty.  But, he's a boy and the silly bear (who must've only been in the matinee version) was what he enjoyed.  In the middle of the second act, he leaned over and whispered:

"Mommy, I'm kind of bored."

Oh well.  I guess my dream of him becoming the next Mikhail Baryshnikov is over.  Which I'm sure my husband is grateful for since ballet is, as my sister put it, g-a-y.

Notthatthere'santhingwrongwiththatofcourse.  

The name is Frank. Frank Elf.

So, we have an Elf on the Shelf.  Or, rather, my mom had some elves that looked like the Elf on a Shelf, so she gave them to me so we could play the game this Christmas season.  You know, to help the boys be on their best behavior for 6 or so weeks so I wouldn't have to threaten them with no Christmas.  Instead, I have someone else threatening no Christmas.  "I didn't tell Santa you were bad, it was the Elf on the Shelf."  Whoever came up with this elf thing was a genius!

For those who don't know of this tradition, the purpose of the Elf on the Shelf is to ensure kids are good so parents can spend time buying and wrapping presents instead of peeling one screaming child off another every 5 minutes.  For said children, the elf is the eyes and ears of The (Big Fat) Man, taking in the daily activities of each house.  Each night, the elf uses his magical powers to fly back to the North Pole with status updates of these good and bad children.  For example, if my 4-year-old kicks the 7-year-old in the face (yes, that happens a lot), Santa is going to know about it.  And each morning, upon the elf's return, he likes to play tricks on the families by hiding in a different spot.

So, basically, it's just one more thing we adults have to remember to do every night.

The first 2 weeks we had Frank (I was hoping for Lou, but Frank it is), he hid in our kitchen cabinet.  Along with the other elves my mother gave me.  In a pile.  Yeah, I suck at this stuff.  Honestly, it's just another thing I have to do.  With the decorating and the shopping and everything else, I lost the will to add one.  more.  thing.

Really, I'm not a bah humbug kind of person.  I love Christmas.  I love the music and the lights and the shopping and the baking (or, more to the point, the eating of the baked goods my husband makes) and seeing the Nutcracker and all that crap.  I was all gung ho this year, too.  As we speak, I'm almost done with my shopping!  Being a notorious Christmas Eve shopper, this is an amazing feat for me.

As a general rule, I try not to get into the Christmas spirit too early.  Otherwise, I'm burnt out before Christmas arrives.  So, ever since I left retail (which celebrates Christmas from the 4th of July on), I hold off listening to any Christmas music until 2 weeks before Christmas.

But, this year, I went off the reservation.  Since I was Christmas shopping, I had to listen to the music to get in the mood, right?  So I did.  The last 4 days, I have spent all my spare time shopping and decorating.  I have more glitter on me on any given day than all the strippers in the world combined.  I spent 2 hours on Friday at Toys R Us alone.  And Saturday, my mother, SIL and I closed down 2 shopping venues.

We are in it to win it.  I have shin splints and sore arms, but my monthly cardio quota was met in one weekend and it's a small price to pay for giving the boys the perfect gift. 

But, if I have to hear Johnny Mathis sing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" one more time, I might actually kill someone. 

So, as you can imagine, the Elf on the Shelf got the shaft.  But, over the weekend, I realized what fun we could have with this guy.  I love the magic of Christmas.  And, with my 7-year-old already questioning the existence of Santa Claus (with a "Just tell me the truth, Mommy" - damn those older elementary kids for planting seeds of doubt!), I had to do something.

Okay, I suck at it.  Friday night, I decided to move Frank from his kitchen cabinet to the top of our lamp.  And my wonderful (painintheass - kidding, my brother!  I love her!) niece caught me moving him.  And then told her cousin the next morning.

Sonofa...

I think I saved it.  I told them adults sometimes need to help the elf if he asks.  And he asked me to move him because he ate too many cookies and couldn't move himself.

Right.  That was why.

After my marathon shopping on Saturday, I hid my loot in my closet and went straight to bed.  And then remembered I didn't move the damelf.  So, I went back downstairs and threw the elf head first into an almost empty box of Cheerios, making it look like he got caught having a late night snack.

I'm so clever.

Okay, I'm not.  But, the boys laughed, and that's all that mattered.

Fall is in the air

So, Fall has always been my favorite season.  The crisp air, the fragrant bouquet of sharpened #2 pencils, apple cider, jumping in leaves, college football.  It's always been a great time of year... until, for whatever reason, the last few years, when Fall has done nothing but remind me that Winter is on its way.  That bitch.

It's been a particularly wet year around here.  Spring brought about many sleepless nights for my husband, who, with harrowing flashbacks to (as his family affectionately calls it) The Great Flood of 1988, would run to our basement to make sure our sump pump was doing its job.

Fall has been no exception.  It seemed every day has been cold and wet lately.  So much so that I was almost praying for winter because, at the very least, snow is pretty to look at.  From afar.  Far far afar.

Last weekend, we received a reprieve from the rain.  It was the picture of autumn perfection - blue skies, crisp air, the scent of burning something or other (hopefully not someone's house) in the air.  So, we decided to seize the day, do something fallish.  Be proper parents and give the boys good memories of their childhood (although I remember nothing of the fun events my mother planned for us as children - wait what?  I didn't say that.).  Apple picking!  Pumpkin patch!  Corn maze!  Something they can't blame me for later ("You ruined my life!  You didn't take me to the pumpkin patch!"). 

My brother has been working out east and knew of an area that boasted of corn mazes/pumpkin patches/apple pickings.  So, the 4 of us, plus our 4 children, made the hour drive to this blessed area.

Children:  Are we there yet?
Me:  No.
Children:  Arrrrrggghhh.  

Only one child fell asleep on the trip.   

We got to the apple picking farm and found it deserted.  It was open, right?  It was a beautiful fall day, why wasn't this place swarming with apple pickers?

Turns out we missed peak apple picking season.  The place had been hit hard by the rain, and, to add to that, most of the trees had already been picked through.  But, we put on our rain boots and trudged out there anyway.  Got some great pictures of the kids picking from the trees ("See?  We went apple picking when you were little!").  The man told the children not to pull, but to push up and twist (in case you were hoping to gain apple picking instructions from this story - you're welcome).  They listened.  Sort of.  After we filled 2 large plastic bags with, um, not very pretty-looking apples (which my brother ate directly from the tree - they were delicious [and he, luckily, didn't die from any germs]) and grabbed a bag of caramel corn (Love. Fall.), we left for the corn maze.

This place had everything.  Corn maze!  Pumpkin patch!  Hay rides!  Petting zoo!  I was pumped.  I was ready.  Bring on the maze!

Brother:  Short, middle or long maze?
Me (thinking of the child I would, no doubt, be carrying through most of it):  Short.

I was overruled.  Which, fine.  If we were going to do this, let's Do.  This.

It started out well enough.  The brother was elected Map Reader, the sister-in-law chased the children, the children ran, the husband snapped pictures, I posted funny status updates on Facebook ("We're lost."  Heh.).  We were having fun.

But this maze was over 3 miles long.  The fun couldn't last.

About a quarter of the way through, I had a 4-year-old attached to my hip.  I was getting a blister from the boots I had never worn before (had I not learned the "break in shoes before wearing" rule yet?).  I had taken off my fleece jacket.  I was holding 2 other people's jackets.  Along with aforementioned 4-year-old.  One child had stripped himself of almost all his clothes.  (Perhaps it wasn't the crispest fall day of the year.  It was downright balmy.  Who's idea was this?)

Me (dragging whiny 4-year-old):  Are we there yet?
Brother:  No.
Me:  Arrrrrggghhh.

But, it was damfun.  I love this crap.

After the maze, we went on a hay ride up the hill to the petting zoo.  The kids had a great time holding bunnies (on sale for $5!  Or, 5 minutes later, 2 for $5!), petting horses, running atop hay stacks.  We then made our way down the hill and climbed even more haystacks.  A child (not one of ours) pushed another child (one of ours) off the hay.

Other child's mother:  You can't push people like that.  That's not your cousin.
Me:  ?

We took another hay ride to the pumpkin patch and picked our annual pumpkins.  By then, we were all spent.  On our hour-long ride home, I called my mother to make sure she was making us all dinner.

She was.

My faith in fall had been restored!

Until this morning.

Weatherman:  Snow snow snow.
Me:  Is it Spring yet?
Weatherman:  Ha!
Me:  Arrrrrggghhh.

The good ol' days... for a night, anyway

So, we went to a wedding this past weekend for one of my college roommates.  I had been looking forward to it for weeks.  I hardly see my college friends anymore, with life always getting in the way.  Plus, the wedding was out of town and the boys stayed with my parents for the night.  Why, yes.  Yes, I will have another drink!

My college friends are great.  They are just as fun as they were when we were living together.  I am not very good (read:  I SUCK) at keeping in touch with people.  It's safe to say my BFF and I wouldn't be friends at all if she didn't work as hard as she does to keep us together.  (She probably secretly hates me because of that, but I love her for pretending she doesn't.)  I don't always know what's going on with everyone, so this wedding was a good way to play catch-up. 

If I were to ever crazy disciplined enough to write a book, it would revolve around some kind of reunion.  The entire story would take place over an evening or a weekend.  Or a wedding, like this one.  Having the history we do with each other, it's scary interesting to see how we'd interact now with the ones who knew us long ago, saw us at our dumbest, and (shudder) remember the things we'd rather forget.

College was an interesting time for us.  We were young and dumb, and liked to have fun.  We were on our own for the first time in our lives.  We didn't have to go to class if we didn't want.  We could stay out all night.  We could sleep all day.  Lucky for me, I had pretty disciplined roommates.  They went to class, they studied.  They made sure I went to class and studied by making me feel guilty that they went to class and studied - I couldn't very well use "Days of Our Lives" a legitimate excuse to miss class.  In turn, I made sure they were fed.  We had messy, sometimes drunken, arguments about each other or boys or dirty dishes.  I remember, one time, my one roommate refused to clean a pot (or forgot it was hers).  As the cleaner, it killed me to have that pot sitting there.  But, I had to see how long it would take before someone (read: not me) did something about it.  In the end, the pot transformed into something we had to donate to science.

These people know me and I know them.  They remember the time I was pulled over for running a stop sign (and got out of a ticket).  Drunk (and still got out of the ticket).  (This never happened, by the way.)  (Although, I was an excellent drunk driver.)  I remember the months my roommate obsessed about the same boy (whom she, luckily, ended up marrying).  Or the times I wrote papers for my friends because I liked it and could do it in an evening.  And (pat on back) get them an A.  Or that I would rap to 2Pac and Biggie Smalls and not be at all embarrassed about the fact that I was a skinny white girl listening to gangsta rap in my 1989 Mercury Topaz.  Or realize that we know the creator of Silly Bandz.  And remember that our idea of cardio consisted of going out dancing 3 nights a week.  Or that I ordered 2 hard tacos and an order of nachos from Taco Bell at 2am every Thursday night.   

And now, here we are, all of us married, most of us with kids.  How will we be able to look at these children, knowing what we know?  How does my wonderfully adorable roommate, who could only contribute a jar of pickles to our pantry every month, have 3 children?  How do I sing nursery rhymes to my children without throwing out the f bomb or talking about popping a cap in yo ass?  Why won't I allow my kids to eat something that fell on my kitchen floor, that I clean daily, but let my BFF eat a piece of pizza that she dropped in the street?

And, true to our nature, our old selves reemerged on Saturday.  I was out on the dance floor, dancing and rapping to Nelly.  One roommate was drunk on dirty martinis (okay, that's new - we drank cheap beer back in the day) and "I love you"ing everyone.  One friend was crying the whole evening because she was drunk so happy for all of us who were married with children.  The bride and groom supplied us with a photo booth at the reception to make fools of ourselves capture the evening... and we took full advantage of it.

In my Great American Novel, though, there'd have to be more than just fun drunken times (that are now forever captured in hundreds of hilariously posed photos).  There'd have to be some drama, some intrigue.  Like one of the girls brings another's ex-boyfriend as her guest.  Or one of the bridesmaids is actually a spy and the bad guy is a guest at the wedding.  There could be a shoot-out at the reception, during a 2Pac song (and most guest would think it was just a part of the song), and the spy, in her cinnamon colored organza bridemaid's dress (with matching heels) effectively captures the bad guy.  And the ex-boyfriend, after getting in the line of fire to protect his ex, realizes life is short and wins the ex back.  And they live happily ever after.  After a trip to the hospital to stitch him up.

Hmm.  Makes the real wedding seem kind of boring after that.
   

Namaste

So, I finally took a real yoga class this week.  I’ve been practicing yoga for a couple years now.  And by “practicing”, I mean, "attempting yoga poses through various videos, Wii Fit and P90X".  I actually think I’ve gotten pretty good with the P90X one.  The first time I did it?  I cried at the end.  That was either a good or bad sign.

But, because I never had any formal training, I was afraid I was doing the poses incorrectly (although the computerized Wii Fit trainer told me I did a great job).  So, I’ve always wanted to take a class.  My cousin is a yoga instructor and gave me the name of a woman on my side of town to try. 

2 years ago.

But, because I’m a big baby social, I wanted to take this class with a friend.  I begged pleaded with implored suggested to my friends that they take a class with me.  No one said yes.  Or, rather, they said yes, but never meant it.  Love you guys! 

Finally, FINALLY, I talked a friend into going.  Hooray!  We made a date, she contacted the teacher, we were set.  The class was held at the instructor’s house about 25-30 minutes south of where I live.  It’s a little far for a class, but I was going to get real training!  By an instructor who was recommended to me by another instructor!  It was going to be awesome! 

I passed by the house on my first attempt.  Damn.

  

We all walked into her house, took off our shoes.  Her yoga studio is pretty awesome.  I am not good at describing things, but it was pretty.  Beautiful lightly-stained wood floors, big floor-to-ceiling bay windows that look out onto 8 acres of land.  Through the window, I could see an outdoor area for yoga, but with the mosquito problems we’ve had this summer, we voted to stay indoors. 

There were 11 of us in all in the class.  We began class seated in a circle on the floor.  Went through about 20 minutes of introduction.  Who we are, why we were there.  Then the chanting began.

I knew chanting was a part of it.  In the P90X version I’d done, there are ohms at the end of the video.  And, I did them.  Because, according to Tony, our nervous system needed to be massaged.  Or something.  But, this time, I was afraid I wasn’t going to get through them without laughing.  I mean, I understand the benefits of yoga.  That was the main reason I want to do it.  It just felt… silly.  I had to give it a chance, though.  If I wasn’t going to go all in, there was no point being there. 

So, I faked it chanted. 

And messed up the words.  How do you mess up an ohm?

Eh. 

The poses we did were pretty similar to what I’ve done in the past.  I felt good about my technique.  She only corrected my position once.  Wait, twice.  When she told us to rotate our knees, I had each knee going in the opposite direction of each other (picture 'wax on, wax off').  She then put my knees together and showed me what she meant (both knees going in the 'wax on' direction).

Oh. 

Okay, that part made me laugh out loud.  Was I trying to make it difficult?  Picture you knees rotating in towards each other.  It’s not easy.

And then came the half hour relaxation part.  This was the part I always skipped in my prenatal yoga video.  Who can lie still for that long without being asleep?  Or watching a movie?  Or reading?  And how are you supposed to turn off the outside world?  For as long as I can remember, every time I’ve tried to “tune out”, it has only made me think more obscure thoughts.  

"Did I turn off my curling iron this morning?"
"I should stop and get some milk on my way home."
"Gaaah!  Stop thinking!  Concentrate on not thinking!"
"I should consider getting one of those yoga blankets.  They're cute."
"I wonder how long we have to lie here?"
"Man, I suck at this." 

But, then it got a little easier because she gave us images to think about.

A butterfly.

A sunset over the ocean.
A bottle of ketchup.

I have to admit, I felt pretty great afterward.  Didn't feel like talking much afterward, but I was Chatty Cathy once I got home.  And the euphoria lasted clear through the next day.

This is my kind of exercise.  Namaste!