The Dominant Dumpster-Diving Gene

I can’t throw an empty can of tomato paste away without my children knowing about it. I can mix my colors and whites, clean the bathroom naked, and drive to swimming lessons in reverse and my kids won’t say a thing. But if I toss a Spiderman-themed candy wrapper in the garbage, I’m going to hear about it.

Just last week Leah removed a flower arrangement from the trash. Just plucked it from the top of the can and placed it in front of our house like a sad little monument of my anti-domestic prowess. Unfortunately, the arrangement was from my birthday, which was nearly two months ago.

So when I toss something that I’m afraid might get discovered, I hide it under the empty soda can full of bacon grease, behind the junk mail, or, if I’m smart, in a Walmart plastic bag, tied in a double knot at the top.

But I have to admit, I’m usually not that smart. And I’ve managed to throw some cherished items away in that heartless, mean-mommy manner of mine. Things like completed homework assignments, an empty Pepsi can with Indiana Jones on it, hair ties covered in dust found under the living room couch, little plastic weapons, a half-eaten bag of melted Skittles, the DVD case for Leah & Stitch that’s been missing its DVD for three years, broken Happy Meal toys, a rainbow-colored shoelace, and one Barbie leg.

You wouldn’t believe the drama that ensues once I’ve been discovered. Wailing and hiccupping they ask, “Why, Mommy? Why would you throw my Barbie leg away?” There’s no reasoning with that. I’m evil and that’s all there is to it.

But as I write this I have a nagging feeling that dumpster-diving is a dominant gene that just may have come from me. The only difference is I have yet to throw my stuff away. Because as I look around I notice that in the pass-through between my kitchen and dining room I have three, count them—three bowls full of change, keys, business cards, paper clips, a handful of marbles, screws, nails, and an assortment of washers. At what point did one bowl stop being enough to hold all that stuff? And how did I justify allowing the overflow to fill two more?

On my dining room table is a laundry basket filled halfway with unmatched socks. It’s not a new basket, but one that I’ve carried to and from the laundry room for about 6 months now. I don’t know where the mates have gone, but they’re obviously not coming back.

As I mentally travel through my house I’m quickly realizing that I have enough garbage displayed inside my home to fill two garbage cans. And believe me, these things are just as valuable as Barbie legs.

So this weekend I will purge my home of all trash, trying to encourage my children to do the same.

That, or we’ll have a yard sale.

When Bad Parenting Happens

I’m no Super Nanny or Dr. Spock, and not even on a good day am I Brangelina minus the entourage and airbrushing. That knowledge drove me to Professor D’s parenting class about 6 months ago. And not to point fingers or anything, but he was the one who told me I could send my oldest child to his room and lock him in if he chose not to stay there himself. Which is why, 6 months later, I found myself locked in that same bedroom late one summer night with all three children huddled around me.

I won’t bore you with the ugly details. But I will say that in a moment of parenting desperation I switched the bathroom door knobs with the one in the boys’ room in order to have ultimate parental control by locking the door from the outside. I am mama, hear me roar.

And in my defense, I only had to lock Kaleb in two times before the lock was no longer necessary. Which was why I completely forgot that the boys’ room locked from the outside until Leah accidentally locked us in on her way back from getting a drink.

I shook the door handle. I tried to jimmy the lock with a wire hanger. I even began removing the hinges only to realize I would have to break the door frame in order to get past the lock.

And when I turned around Kaleb was sitting on his bed, arms folded and eyebrows raised. “Trust me,” he said. “We’re never breakin’ out of here.”

No one likes it when bad parenting comes back to thumb its nose at you, and in front of your own children.

“Are we going to die in Kaleb’s room, Mom?” Leah asked, blinking her dewy eyes at me.

No, I thought. We’re going to call Professor D and asked him to get us out of this mess. Only, I didn’t bring my cell phone to tuck my kids into bed.

So I went to the window and looked down the long slope of my metal roof. You might remember that 7 months ago, at Christmas time, I was locked out of my house and stood at the base of my roof trying to determine whether or not I could climb back in.

I took out the screen and straddled the window sill, thinking how much like a slide my metal roof appeared. Getting down will be a snap, I thought. That is, if I weren’t barefoot with a very thick application of Bath & Body Works sheau butter on my feet. This was not an escape plan but a new Olympic event.

I sat there for a few minutes, pondering my options, while Leah stood beside me, gasping periodically and saying something about having to rethink our family fire escape plan.

It was then that I noticed our neighbors, chatting pleasantly in their gazebo. I realized I had two options. One, I could slide down my roof, providing someone the opportunity to take great footage for America’s Funniest Home Videos. Or two, I could ask my neighbors to spring us from our Spiderman-themed prison. It may seem like a no-brainer, but I had to think about it for awhile.

Finally, I called them over.

Five minutes later my lovely neighbor was unlocking the boys’ bedroom door from the outside. She told me my house smelled nice and added, “It’s weird that the door locks that way.”

Weird.

Weird enough that I lulled my children to sleep that night to the sound of door knobs being put back where they belonged.

And I could swear Kaleb wasn’t snoring but laughing in his sleep.

I’m guessing so were the neighbors.

Worst-Case Scenario Mama

This week my doctor took me off Google. That’s right. I am no longer allowed to search the internet for ailments and their freakish causes. And I’ll tell you why.

First, let me preface this column by acknowledging that I have issues. The truth is, if you’ve read more than two posts, you are acutely aware of this fact and have probably laughed unabashedly at my expense, grateful that there are people out there in need of more therapy than you. That’s okay. I’m totally at ease with my dysfunctional self. You can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. Right, Dr. Phil?

So this is my big issue: I have the tendency to worry. Excessively. Now for some people that would simply be a character flaw. For me it’s an occupation.

For example, just two weeks ago I took Zack to the pediatrician, again. He had been having headaches and instead of assuming it was caused by bad vision, child migraines or even dehydration, I jumped to the frightening conclusion that it was a brain tumor. It wasn’t, but I was more than willing to pay a $20 co-pay to have a doctor say as much.

And while we were there I asked that she check his urine. Frequent trips to the bathroom during church had me assuming, you got it, he also had juvenile diabetes. Not a urine infection or excessive hydration, but juvenile diabetes.

I fondly refer to myself as Worst-Case Scenario Mama. Give me a problem or a symptom and I immediately imagine the worst-case scenario. I’m good at it. If only there were a game show.

My most recent self-induced scare involved a numb toe—my numb toe. For nearly two years the big toe on my left foot has been numb. For nearly two years I had chosen not to worry about it (I was a little preoccupied). But for whatever reason I decided to start worrying three weeks ago. And by worry I mean Google.

Worse than Google is wrongdiagnosis.com. It’s a breeding ground for hypochondriacs. All the worse-case ailments I had imagined were there as well as a handful of conditions I hadn’t even considered. I was in Fright Heaven.

After much internet searching I diagnosed myself with a nearly fatal disease. And regardless of the fact that I’ve never had any medical training, for two and a half weeks I grieved, begging God to let me raise my children into adulthood.

You laugh, but it’s true.

So this week my doctor told me I have a compressed nerve.

“You mean I don’t have a nearly fatal degenerative nerve disease?” I asked.

She cocked her head. “Uhm. No.” she said.

And that’s why I’m no longer allowed to Google my symptoms.

Or my children’s symptoms.

Or the symptoms of my neighbors, friends and family.

Which makes me wonder—what does excessive worrying cause? I bet Google would tell me…

(And no, that doesn’t count. It’s preventative…)

Summer Vacation

I know I’m out of season, but for the last few days “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot like Christmas” has been stuck in my brain. And while it has felt more like winter around here than summer, the truth is the line—“And mom and dad can hardly wait for school to start again”—has become my mantra, my positive affirmation, the theme song for the next two and a half months of my life.

School has been out for approximately 20 days here in Idaho Falls, 19 if you choose not to count Memorial Day. Is it just my children, or is summer a whiny wasteland for all little people under twelve?

I have great kids. Really, I do. But the three of them, together, have bad chemistry. If they’re not fighting, they’re scheming which is never good for me, the lone adult outnumbered by her children. At least when they’re fighting I know where they are and what’s going on. It’s when things become quiet that I start to worry.

In the last two weeks one of more of my children has been grounded for five years, sat on timeout for a total of 164 minutes, flooded the toilet, flooded the bathtub, run down the street in their pajamas, ridden the cat like a donkey, watched Barbie: Mariposa 14 times, quoted inappropriate lines from Monty Python: In Search of the Holy Grail, eaten dirt, gotten lost in the grocery store, started a collection of potato bugs, released and/or killed his sister’s collection of potato bugs, and wacked her brother on the head with a broom.

In response to the list above, I have said each of the following at least once in the last 20 days of summer:

Don’t hit/kick/bite/scratch/pinch/touch/look at/spit at/tease your brother/sister.
Go apologize to your brother/sister.
Give that back to him/her.
Don’t talk to your brother/sister that way.
Don’t talk to me that way.
Sit on timeout.
Do you want to go to your room?
What did you just say?
What’s in your mouth?
Don’t roll your eyes at me, Mister!
We don't go outside naked.
You don’t know where that’s been.
Flush the toilet.
Come here.
Come here!
Come here!!!

Parents, it's gonna be a great summer! All 49 and a half days of it.

www.upinthenight.com

Guess what? My blog is all grown up and has a domain name of its very own! You can now get here by typing in www.upinthenight.com. How easy is that? So change your links (or leave them--you'll still be able to get here).

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, and thanks for reading!

Shauna

When Crazy Happens

Yesterday was my birthday. I know, I know. Happy Birthday to me. But this post isn’t about how old I’m getting (hallelujah!). It’s about the most bizarre and disturbing experience I’ve had…ever, I think.

I was picking my kids up from my MIL’s house when they informed me I wasn’t allowed inside yet. They were still preparing my “surprise” party. So I stood outside and held Zack, swaying him back and forth while singing in his ear.

It was then that this old man approached us and started talking. I couldn’t understand what he was saying at first; it was obvious that he had a senility thing going on. I just assumed he was telling me how adorable my son is, because, well, he is. See?

But that’s not what he was trying to say at all. He began speaking with more urgency, and after this awkward moment where he told me I needed to call the duck, he found his words and began terrifying me beyond belief.

This is where I need to stop, mid-story, and explain how utterly Panic-Happy I am. Yes, Panic-Happy is a condition and I have it. If I, in one weak moment, can imagine something bad happening, I make it my divine responsibility to start worrying about the possibility of the bad thing happening. For example, Zack has been having headaches lately. Perhaps four in the last 6 weeks—not a huge amount, but enough to get this Worse-Case Scenario Mama on task. I’ve imagined all the horrible things that might be causing aforementioned headaches. I won’t list them here because typing them out may cause me to hyperventilate and pass out before completing this post. On with the story…

By that time my MIL had come outside and was trying to help me end the conversation with the crazy man. Come to find out he didn’t want me to call a duck; he was insisting I call a doctor, because, he informed me, Zack was dying. And he didn’t stop insisting. He had remembered all the words necessary to tell me, over and over again, that God had informed him my son would die unless I got him to a doctor, immediately. He followed me into the house and my MIL called the police.

This is where I must interrupt, yet again, to say that this is the point at which I began to have a panic attack. What if this guy could read Zack’s energy and knew something I didn’t? What if the death sentence he envisioned was somehow connected to those disturbing headaches? What if all those movies with the slightly insane yet incredibly prophetic characters who could save countless people if they could only get past the slightly psycho exterior were being replayed in my MIL’s livingroom? I actually considered picking Zack up and taking him to the emergency room right then and there, leaving my MIL to deal with the crazy man. But what would I tell them? “This crazy man said my son’s dying and I need you to look into that for me.”

After about 10 agonizing minutes with this man insisting on Zack’s death and frightening Kaleb and Leah beyond belief while I stood between them shaking uncontrollably, the policeman arrived.

Long story short, the policeman got the crazy man home and his caretakers promised to suspend his walks. And I finally stopped shaking.

Bizarre, right?

But for whatever reason, having someone tell you that your son is dying, even if that someone’s presence of mind is questionable, is a disturbing experience. Last night was long and uncomfortable. Thankfully in the light of day the old man seemed less prophetic and more lost. And Zack, I’m happy to announce, is still very much alive.

Mama? She be needing some therapy.

How Dieting Has Aged Me

I haven’t quite decided which is worse. Looking fat or looking old. Unfortunately for me, the two seem to be mutually exclusive. Let me explain.

After seven weeks in Weight Watchers I have lost a total of 20.2 pounds. Fabulous, right? The only problem is that my face, which was once pudgy and prime, is slowly deflating. At first this wasn’t a problem until I realized that the fat had actually been stuffing my wrinkles, eliminating them altogether. As the skin settles closer to my skull, it’s beginning to pucker and sag. I’m becoming svelte, slender, and shriveled. It’s hugely disappointing.

I first noticed this while driving my car. As I looked into the rearview mirror I noticed a distinct line between my eyes. I thought it was a stray eyebrow hair and immediately tried to remove it. It was no hair. It was a deep-set wrinkle! You’ve heard all those smartypants newscasters warn about how stress causes premature aging? Turns out they’re right. All those years I furrowed my brow with worry and anxiety have permanently scarred my forehead.

When I lived in Japan my friends used to slap my forehead whenever I furrowed my brow. They warned that if I did that enough, like crossing my eyes, it would eventually stay that way. You don’t believe things like that when you’re 21. But I tell you what—it’s been fifteen years and I believe them. If only they’d wacked more sense into me.

My friend told me that some women scotch-tape their foreheads when they’re home to prevent brow-furrowing like a poor woman’s Botox. Sadly, for me, it’s too late for that.

But it turns out that happiness causes just as many wrinkles. I curse my mother for extolling the virtues of a healthy smile. I now have jowl lines and crow’s feet as evidence of all my virtue– a thing that didn’t preoccupy me much before I began losing weight. I’m just praying my skin still has enough elasticity to bounce back. That or I’m counting on modern science to develop the technology where the skin from my children’s buttocks can be grafted onto my face. Considering all the skin they’ve stretched out in other areas, I figure they owe me a cheek or two.

I guess the moral of the story is, keep your expressions consistent. Either furrow or smile, but don’t do both. And apparently you shouldn’t sleep on your face or put your eye makeup on with your pointer finger—it’s too strong. The ring finger is best suited for that, being weak and all. I know, I’m learning all these beauty tips a little late in the game. But 20 pounds ago, I could apply makeup with the palm of my hand and sleep with all three children on my face. The sacrifices you make to be thin.

So I’m opting for old. That’s all there is to it. And if my skin doesn’t bounce back, at least I’ll have my skinny jeans (okay, okay—size 11 jeans). That and I’m still banking on the skin-grafting.

Spring is here!

You know how I can tell it’s spring? Whatever has been rotting in my van all winter long begins to thaw out and smell. Very bad. And the longer the winter the worst the smell. So I’m sure you can imagine my van is very “ripe” this season.

Unfortunately there’s been more hibernating in my van than a foul odor. The floor is littered with backpacks, winter coats, Happy Meal toys, fruit rollup wrappers, empty DVD cases, and dirty, wadded-up socks, to name a few things I can identify. I won’t ruin your day with descriptions of what I can’t.

We could travel across the states and my children would have a set of clothes, a lap full of toys, and enough stale French fries to make it to Nebraska. Not to mention each time the door would open and close we’d leave something behind, a sorry cross between the Clampetts and Hansel and Gretel.

And I’ll blame it all on my seven-year old son who sits in the backseat alone, eating leftovers from his Superman lunchbox and apparently wadding up his dirty socks and throwing them on the floor. Is he the only culprit? Of course not, but do you think I write this blog to take ALL the blame?

It’s not as if we haven’t tried to clean the van. In fact, to our credit, it’s been clean on several occasions. It’s stayed clean all of two hours, but it has been clean.

Sadly we are not the only ones who have had to tolerate our messy van. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I babysit my friend’s daughters who are expected to clear themselves a seat and endure drives to and from the elementary school. One of the girls has taken to asking her mother everyday if she’ll be traveling in my van because she needs to mentally prepare for the ride.

My friend informed me that my vehicle isn’t the only one that disgusts her daughter. But does that really make me feel any better? Okay, maybe a little.

I find that after I clean my van I become militant mom, ordering kids to leave their little toys and treat bagies at home. But once a fight erupts I’ll allow them to drag anything in there, short of a llama (and even that’s negotiable), to ensure a peaceful drive.

And lest you think the inside of my van is the only thing lacking, let me explain to you what one cold winter did to my bumper. The poor thing cracked and then started dragging on the ground. For an entire year we had the only minivan in Idaho Falls with a bumper held into place with duct tape. You remember that, right? Thankfully I ran over a really big rock (ahem!) and the bumper fell off. My friends and family all agree my van looks much better without it.

So in our family we celebrate spring by fumigating our minivan. And this year we were able to cap the celebration by burying our bumper.

Maybe next spring I can drive the whole thing to the dump and leave it there.

Really. Will they let me do that?

In my defense, this post was written before I cleaned out my minivan. My family is visiting this weekend and I couldn’t stand the thought of my mother feeling obligated to clean it while she was here. And it’s sad, really, how accustomed my children had become with minivan squalor. Since cleaning it out last Friday, every time Kaleb gets in he will pet one of the seats in admiration and say, “Mom, the van is so clean,” almost with the same reverence as “Mom, it’s a miracle.”

Brainless in Idaho

For the record, I am currently not interested in dating (so please, do not email the paper requesting to set me up with your handsome, yet freakishly single cousin/brother/son/friend who so happens to be taller than 5’10 and handy enough to fix my roof and tile my kitchen floor. Oh, and serenade me with his dizzying voice and slack-key guitar. That definitely wouldn’t interest me at all). But still, sometimes a girl can be consumed by a fit of curiosity which causes her to do strange things, in strange places.

A few weeks ago my friend told me about this beautiful bachelor who also happened to be a pediatrician. My friend and her sister raved about Dr. LoveMonkey, admitting they became giddy every time their children ran a fever.

Flash forward to last week. Zack had a rash. It looked suspiciously like ringworm, so I made an appointment with my pediatrician. My pediatrician was out of town so they managed to squeeze us in with, you guessed it, Dr. LoveMonkey.

Lest you suspect otherwise, I totally kept my cool. I was just surprised that the infamous Dr. LoveMonkey actually worked with my pediatrician; to tell you the truth I suspected he was an urban legend and my friend was just messing with me. I was curious, but otherwise unaffected.

Unaffected, that is, until Dr. LoveMonkey walked into the examination room. My friend hadn’t done the man justice. He was handsome alright, and exotic, and warm, and hypnotic in a dizzying sort of slack-key guitar way. For a girl who prides herself with being educated and articulate, I immediately became brainless and bumbling. Had I only become speechless. But no, unfortunately, speech was the last thing to go.

After my awkward description of Zack’s strange rash in which I somehow managed to say I was divorced, Dr. LoveMonkey looked my son over and said the rash was textbook eczema.

“Is that genetic, because I think I have it.”

Yes, I said that. And, no, I didn’t stop talking. I couldn’t stop talking. Words dropped from my mouth in humiliating combinations.

But the nice doctor didn’t bat an eye. “Yes. It’s definitely genetic.” And he showed me the classic areas eczema can found, including the inner forearm.

And I promise I’m not making this up. I wish I were. But after he pointed that out I actually began rolling up my sleeves to show Dr. LoveMonkey my eczema, because apparently in that brainless moment I thought flakey skin just might be the key to this man’s heart. Oh, and I think I said something dazzling like, “I have that…”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I met the most eligible bachelor in Idaho Falls and showed him my eczema. Now I’m no brain surgeon or rocket scientist, but I’m guessing this means I’m not quite ready to date.

Date or interact with the single male species.

5 going on 30...

We’ve spent considerable time teaching our children their phone number and address in case they ever get lost and have to tell the nice policeman where they belong. And just last week my daughter demonstrated acute recall ability when she began handing out said phone number to little boys in her kindergarten class.

How do I know this? One of said boys called two afternoons ago while my daughter was with her grandmother. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Hello?

Little Rico Suave: Hi. Is Leah there? This is Little Rico.

Me: She’s with her grandmother.

LRS: Could she play at my house later?

Me: No.

LRS: I’ll call back later.

Me: 10 years from now would be good.

LRS: What?

When I confronted my daughter she informed me that Little Rico wasn’t a boyfriend. And as any child springing from my loins is wont to do, she turned the conversation into a semantic debate. She explained, “I took the word ‘boy’ and ‘friend’ apart. I told Little Rico that he’s my friend who’s a boy. Not my ‘boyfriend’.” Does she think I fell off the turnip truck? Like that excuse wasn’t around a kazillion years ago when I was in elementary school?

I reminded her that she wouldn’t be talking to boys, distributing her phone number to boys, or going over to play with the Little Rico’s of the world until she was twenty three. Reasonable, right? She pouted.

That night I called Little Rico’s mom and told her that I had not intended for my 5-year old to give her phone number to little boys. The mother agreed, bemoaning this fast-paced generation where kids hook up over their preschool snacks. Apparently she wasn’t so keen on my daughter giving her phone number up so easily. Did she just call my daughter a floozy? No matter. This would all soon be in the past.

The next day I asked Leah if she had informed Little Rico Suave that she is not allowed to give her phone number to boys. She told me she had but complained, “He said he didn’t care what you say. He’s going to call again anyway.” I imagined this five-year old boy defending his love for my daughter passionately, calling outside her window, “LEEEEE-ah” in a very Stella-esque manner.

A warning about this had not been distributed in my parenting materials.

I told my daughter our address wasn’t up for grabs either.

I was honked at today, and I’m still not over it.

Here’s what happened:

This morning I went to drop my kids off at school, determined to remain calm regardless of the chaos that is “get ready for school.” Kaleb and Leah began fighting over who would open the door. Kaleb opened it, Leah closed it and tried reopening it only to be cut off by her brother. And since I couldn’t reach the door myself, this happened one more time before the car behind us honked. I told my children they needed to get out. Now.

Disoriented by the honking, both my dear, dear children seemed to forget how to open the van altogether, so I opened my door, walked over to their side and opened it for them. By this time a string of cars had backed up behind us and the Honker was giving me the exaggerated shoulder shrug. I sent my kids off, finally, and went to get back into my car.

Guess what? It was locked. And all my knocking on the window didn’t rouse Zack from his car seat. I looked back at the Honker apologetically only to be given the I’m-not-going-to-kill-you-now-because-we’re-in-public look . Finally the girl I babysit undid her seatbelt and opened my door to which the woman behind me revved her engine. I was tempted to go back and check for her tread marks.

Really. Why the impatience? Is the car honking, fist shaking and general glaring really necessary? Did she think I was watching TV and eating breakfast in my van, thumbing my nose at her and all the cars waiting behind her? I understand that people are in a hurry, and I’ve had my own hasty frustrations, but can’t we just assume that people are doing the best they can?

Or it is my turn to feel bad for her because, apparently, things upset her fairly easily. That or she was having a bad day, only exacerbated by the hold up. So this is where I take my lesson to the Honker and turn it back on myself. I'm just going to assume that she was doing the best she could, and let it go.

Okay. Now I'm over it.

Artistic Musings, by Zack

Zack is becoming quite the artist. To demonstrate, I thought I'd share some of his recent masterpieces:Not only do you get to see Zack's very phallic self-portrait, but you also get a glimpse at the nasty color of my kitchen counters.

And here's a picture of me and my son holding hands. Notice how ginormous I am in comparison to him--something I am currently trying to remedy.

And here's my favorite. Zack and I riding a unicorn.

"Before" Pictures

In an amazing act of faith, my Weight Watchers buddy and I donned our swimming suits and took “before” pictures of one another in my playroom.

Let me preface this by saying that even when I was thin (size 11 is thin to me) you wouldn’t find me dead in a swimming suit. (Unless, of course, I had drowned in a swimming pool and the handsome lifeguard had to rip off my tank top and cover-up shorts in a valiant attempt to save my life.)

But yes, we decided (and without the help of mind-altering medication) to document just how big we are (and by “we” I mean “me” because really, my friend’s a reed in the wind). And isn’t it amazing how your mind often protects you from the truth, convincing you that you’re not as wide as you really are. Because when you see the picture you realize it appears as if you have swallowed a Frito Lay truck. Whole. Generally speaking, of course.

So now I have blackmail-worthy photos on my camera and I’m afraid to download them to my computer. Because my laptop screen is seventeen inches wide and displays with amazing clarity. You do the math.

It’s startling how quickly one can lose their modesty, and not for the reasons you might assume. Last night we weighed in, once again. I showed up in light-weight knit clothing. I went to the bathroom before I stepped on the scale. I would have gotten naked in front of the nearly 15 other women waiting for their turn if they had let me.

First I’m in an amateur photo shoot in my swimsuit. Next, I’m getting arrested for indecent exposure at the local Weight Watchers. I’m on a new slippery slope here, people.

But even wearing clothing we lost ten pounds total. 10 pounds! (And not to brag, but I am. 6.4 of it was mine. All mine!) That’s the size of a baby. And not a newborn either, but a chunky Gerber baby. It may have had something to do with all those light and airy thoughts we were thinking. To quote my friend: “I am light as a frickin’ feather.” I tell ya, that’s the Law of Attraction in action right there.

And as much as you’ve probably enjoyed hearing all about my big ole self, I swear that this blog will not become a weight loss diary. I also promise never to inflict you with my “before” pictures.

The “after” pictures? I can’t promise anything.

For the record…

The truth is I have no shame. I share far too much about myself and my life on this blog. Often that means I feel the need to reblog and clarify something that may have been misstated in a previous post. I don’t know why I do that. Probably because my perspective needs a little reframing and blogging about it helps me to process my thoughts better. You know, cheaper than therapy.

My last post freaked me out a bit. Maybe because I posted about dating out loud. Your comments, one phone call and my own musings had me emotionally hyperventilating in a corner. So, for the record, I haven’t started dating yet. I have no plans to date anytime soon. I’m still trying to reorient myself following the divorce and a very long winter—so long in fact, those two things have become inseparable in my mind. (Which is why I shake my fists at the heavens each time it snows. And yes, it did snow yesterday.)

I feel like I’ve come out of a coma. It’s odd to consider dating a possibility. And my 20-year old mentality of men doesn’t comply with my current lifestyle. I was one of those women who, despite all my feminist mutterings, would swoon once and ask questions later. I probably spent a good deal of time worrying more about what some guy thought of me than I did worrying about what I thought of me. I have children now. There’s no room for that in my life.

And so when my friend, in that surreal conversation, mentioned she wanted to set me up, it caught me off-guard, and I’ve been shaking in my boots ever since. (And if you didn’t catch it in the comments, that man’s wife is now his ex and she is no longer in critical condition. The unfunny part of that post was that any aspect of divorce and family trauma, including a serious car accident, causes anguish. It was the unexpected nature of my friend’s suggestion, including the surreality of it, that unhinged me and later made me laugh when sharing the story with my sisters. Like you might at a funeral where it’s totally irreverent and unacceptable, and all the more difficult to stop.)

So I’m just going to be for awhile. The sun’s coming out more and more these days, and I’m excited about that. For once I’m going to enjoy the here and now. School will be out in 6 weeks and we’ll have a fresh start at summer, different and apart from the hell that was last summer. There will be swimming lessons, baseball games, fresh-cut grass, long walks, and the smell of barbeques. For now that’s enough to look forward to.

So while the men may line up (stop laughing!), dating will not be on the agenda until I can think about it without feeling dizzy and a little nauseated.

And for your viewing pleasure, I thought I'd share with you the new theme song for my life....

When Friends Try to Set You Up

Warning: If my friend or the man she currently wants to set me up with ever start reading this blog, I will promptly delete this post and any related to it. There. You’ve been warned.

I had been divorced about a month when my friend called.

“Okay,” she said. “I have this great guy I’m dying to set you up with.”

“What?” I asked, because I hadn’t expected this conversation so soon.

“But we have to wait until his wife dies.”

“WHAT?”

“It’s a long story, but they were filing for divorce before she got into this
accident and now she’s in critical condition.”

???

“Shauna?”

“I’m here…”

“He’s great though,” she said.

"How do YOU know single guys?” I asked because she's married, and I had
finally wrapped my brain around the fact that my new friend sees my perfect
match in a married guy with an ailing wife.

“But we don’t have to talk about it until she dies,” she said. “Or their
divorce is final.”

And that, my friends, is how I was reintroduced into the dating arena.

Joining Weight Watchers

I think I realized just how frumpy I’d become when my daughter informed me that the neighbor girl had said I was a “little fat.” My lovely daughter defended my honor and told me that she had said, in no uncertain terms, that her mommy is NOT fat. Bless her heart. I was flattered that the neighbor girl just said a little.

But I’m doing my best to defrump myself. My hair’s been coifed and colored for two weeks now. And while I’ve taken that first big step towards overcoming my Salonaphobia I have yet to tackle that aversion to healthy food. The one that’s made me a “little fat.” And a lot frumpy.

So last night, after one Last Supper at Wendy’s, I joined Weight Watchers.

Shortly after 7:30pm on Thursday night I was weighed in. I was assigned a healthy weight range. I was told about points. I was feeling thin already.

When joining any weight-loss plan one should journey with a friend, preferably the one who’s always told you that you’re not fat at all. I brought mine with me last night. And, happenstance, she weighed in at just .4 pounds more than me. She also happens to be 3 inches taller, but who’s counting, right? The best thing was she had the enthusiasm of someone twice her size. Throughout the entire meeting she acted like a Baptist at a Sunday revival. Only instead of “amen” or “hallelujah” she said “right on,” threatening a very weak hold on my composure.

But the fun stopped there when the facilitator, in attempts to demonstrate just how the point system works, asked me to share with the group what I had eaten for breakfast. Of course that’s what I had been dreading all day long on this, my last day fraternizing with Trans fats and fast food: the food confession.

“Uhm… A Sonic breakfast burrito…”

“A burrito?” She began thumbing through her book.

“Bacon, egg, and cheese,” I added. “With tater tots.”

Still thumbing.

“And a large diet coke with lemon.”

The dear facilitator skipped me and asked the lady to my left instead.

Okay, so maybe I got off on the wrong foot. But I am off. Off and running away from Frumpyville.

And as I was told last night, they’ll be seeing less of me next week (as long as I start seeing less of Sonic. And Wendy’s. And…).

In Which I Cut the Cable

About three weeks ago I cut the cable. To our television, that is. I wish I could say it was for noble reasons: to end to the promotion of unhealthy social norms, the hijacking of valuable freelance time, and my three-year old’s uncanny ability to recognize the trademarks and ad slogans for all preschool toys. But simply put, it was an unnecessary indulgence. Okay, okay. More simply put, I could no longer afford it.

I expected long and excruciating tantrums after which I would have to explain how important it is to entertain oneself rather than sit mindlessly in front of a television set. I’m proud to say I haven’t thrown one of those tantrums yet this week. So I’m getting better.

My kids, on the other hand, are taking it well. Thankfully, my decision to cut the cable came simultaneously with the first sign of spring. (Now tell me you don’t believe in God.)

So I am the one experiencing withdrawals.

I realized just how bad my—ahem—problem was when visiting my parents over spring break, or as I like to call it, Spring Cable Binge. I watched things I wouldn’t even watch when paying for my own cable. Really, who wants to see an old rock star try to find his true love among scantily-clad women with a foul vocabulary? Last week, apparently I did (but only when “High School Reunion” was on commercial break).

But when not on Spring Cable Binge I watched much more reputable programs like Project Runway and Top Chef. In fact, I waited for the finale of Project Runway to air before I made that fateful call to discontinue our cable service. Someone asked, “Why didn’t you just watch the Season Premier of Top Chef after that? One episode isn’t going to hurt you.” I replied (trying to hide the hand tremors and initial signs of hyperventilation), “Oh, who cares about Top Chef anyway…”

So I’ve cut that umbilical cord to the mother of pop culture and I’m fairing well. There really are a lot of cableless perks, including but not limited to the following: the realization that 24 hours in one day is really quite a lot; my children are no longer aware which toys are currently being distributed with Happy Meals; and most importantly, I no longer waste time looking for the remote.

Come on. Admit it.

You’re thinking about cutting your cable now too.

Revisiting the Frump

You may recognize some of this from a previous post. I stole the first two paragraphs for a column on my frumpiness. But it talks about my new haircut so I decided it was fair blogger game.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’ve let myself go. I’ve let myself go far into the frump.

At the peak of this slippery slope I was well-intentioned. I had three children in three years; I was surrounded by little people who loved me with or without good makeup and hair; and the only adults I “interacted” with were guests on Oprah and Dr. Phil. But my oldest is now six and I must admit that I’ve slid off the slope to land, belly-up, in the frumpy gully. It’s a sad day, folks. Can’t look away though, can you? It’s like a train wreck. With cellulite.

So as a newly divorced woman who’s had people threaten to set me up on dates (more on THAT later), I’ve had to take a good, hard look at myself and admit that this girl’s come a long way from her highlighted hair and skinny jeans.

Last week, while home visiting my family for spring break I decided to do something about it and get my hair done (baby steps, people). My mom scheduled an appointment for me at her salon and then warned me, as I stepped out the door, that my stylist was a man.

Now, I’m a sophisticated woman—albeit a frumpy one, and although I’ve never had a man cut and color my hair, I’m progressive, open-minded, and very cosmo when I need to be. So as I drove to the salon I mentally prepared myself to have my hair done by someone like Robin Williams’ brother in “Mrs. Doubtfire.”

My stylist was very much NOT like Robin Williams’ brother in “Mrs. Doubtfire.” My stylist was more like Keanu Reeves in “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.” Young, good looking, and the very antithesis of frumpy. Dude.

Visions of having an upbeat conversation punctuated with “that’s right, girlfriend,” suddenly disappeared. They were replaced with 115 excruciating minutes of my stylist anticipating his upcoming getaway to the Oregon Coast where there would apparently be much drinking and crabbing. Actually about 7 minutes were filled with talking, 108 were filled with awkward silence. The little Paris Hilton dog sitting on the neighboring patron’s lap was having more fun than I was.

But it wasn’t completely Dude’s fault. While I can be a fairly chatty person under normal circumstances, I clam up every time I sit in a stylist’s chair. Or maybe it’s the mirror. Having to watch myself talk is very disconcerting and I never have one good thing to say. “Crabbing, huh?” I got nothin’.

But finally, miraculously, my hair appointment ended and to celebrate I gave my stylist a generous tip that left us both speechless. Again.

And while I really do like my hair, I’m still questioning whether or not it was worth it . Which leaves me to wonder if my frumpiness is the result of personal neglect or some odd salon phobia. I am a Salonaphobe. That and I have this strange aversion to healthy food.

See? I’m not frumpy.

I’m just a very sick woman in need of therapy.

No, I'm Not Dead

Sheesh, one entire month is even a record for me. But it’s been a month full of freelance, two roadtrips (one with, one without children), a sickness (recycled), a post-winter snowstorm in which I cursed the heavens and was cursed in return, a dead laptop (see?), a new and improved laptop, the termination of cable, the panic attack following the termination of cable, a revived Diet Coke addiction, and Spring Break (in which my children were reunited for much fighting and chaos—it’s amazing how many hours are in a school day).

Thanks so much to everyone who posted, emailed, or called wondering if I were 1) dead or 2) a recent winner of the lottery (thanks, Karen!). I’m neither. But for awhile I was too depressed or distracted to blog; I’m still uncertain which it was.

But here I am, enjoying a nice break with the kids at my parents’, eating fine food (thanks, mom), getting my taxes done (thanks, dad) and bingeing on cable (dare I say, “High School Reunion” and “Rock of Love 2”?). The twins are doing fabulously and my baby brother’s engaged. I’ve also had my hair cut and colored and spent some quality time scrapbooking with Kristi O (Kristi, you’re a hoot! It was great to meet a bloggy friend in person, along with her beautiful daughter and fun friends).

So I’m hoping that this post helps me kick the blawgs I’ve been feeling lately. Anyone else ever get them?

A Rose by Any Other Name Still Smells Better Than Cat Puke

Is it just me or do all moms test far too many things with their noses throughout the course of the day? Just yesterday I sniffed at the milk to see if it had turned, checked some bed sheets to see if I could smell pee, followed a nasty trail to the basement where our cat had gotten sick, sniffed through a pile of clothes to see if they were dirty, and tracked down my son’s moldy snow boots. (Picture me, the ginormous nose with a Sherlock Holmes cap on top…)

Was it pregnancy that heightened my sense of smell? I can root out the one poopy child in a room of twenty. I can find that one (okay, maybe two...all right...three!) rotten Tupperware containers at the back of my frig. I can walk into a room and within seconds drop to my knees in search of an accosting odor. (This superpower only seems to have two loopholes: one, all raw meat smells bad to me, and two, I cannot find whatever has crawled into the back of my minivan to die, regardless of two excavations and countless Lysol interventions).

I just wonder why I continue to bring suspicious item after suspicious item under my nose to smell it? If it’s suspicious in the first place, shouldn’t I keep it away from my face? If the underpants MAY smell like pee, isn’t it worth the extra detergent to forgo the sniff test?

You know, I learned this from my mother. But at least I didn’t acquire my father’s talent. The Taster. I know, that sounds much more appealing than The Sniffer, but imagine if you will the following conversation from my youth:

Mom: [smelling the milk] Ralph, will you taste this? It smells bad.
Dad: [Drinking the milk.] Yep. It’s bad.

That’s my dad. Keeping the rest of us safe from the sour milk of the world. Me? I’m just exercising the soiled sheets and cat puke from my house.

It’s a tough job. But somebody’s gotta smell it (hahahaha. Get it? I crack myself up sometimes…)