Give me fitness. Give me abs. Give me a Hawaii Chair.

workout woman

Experts say it takes three weeks to turn a new behavior into a habit.  So if my past experience is a predictor, at two weeks into my New Year’s fitness regime I’m going to be, well, bored.  Cardio intervals? Yawn. Core fitness? Zzzzzz.  Eat less, exercise more?  What-EVER.

Give me gimmicks.  Give me fads.  Give me a piece of exercise equipment I can hang wet laundry on when I’m tired of using it.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for lazy-woman fitness.

I’ve been enamored with useless home exercise equipment ever since I watched my grandmother unveil her newest apparatus.  “You wrap this band around your hips,” she told me. “Then you flip this switch.”  The machine began to agitate her body with such vigor, she looked like she was in California during The Big One.  “I-I-I-I a-m-m-m e-xxxx-er-cisingggg!” she squealed over the din of the motor sounding like a post-menopausal Elmer Fudd on an infomercial.  After being shaken by the machine for exactly three minutes, Grandma somehow managed to flip the switch off. The band around her hips went slack and fell behind her legs. “Whew, what a workout!” she said patting her forehead with a towel, although she hadn’t visibly broken a sweat.

If this was working out, then I could embrace fitness. [Read more...]

What To Do When The Snorchestra Begins

snoring man

I took off my glasses and turned off the light.  I pulled the covers up, rolled on my side and closed my eyes.

That’s when it started.

Snick. Snick. Snick.

It was like the sound my car made when the alternator died.  But unlike the noise that stopped once I realized turning the key with greater frequency would not revive the lifeless battery, this sound continued.

SNICK. SNICK. SNICK.

The cacophony, which I feared would rattle my glasses off the nightstand, jeopardized not only my martial bliss, but my pre-menopausal ability to catch some Zzzzs without sucking on an Ambien.

The Husband was asleep on his back, which meant – he was snoring.

He denies that his supine slumber treats me to the occasionally nasal symphony.  But that night, I stared Eyes Wide Open into the dark listening to his mournful Call of the Loud that sounded like the guttural musings of a small wounded rhino.  [Read more...]

Is A Baby Sister Really Too Much To Ask For?

2013-04-20 11.16.56My youth was idyllic.  My days were drama-free. It was so darned peaceful that Mr. Bluebird occasionally landed on my shoulder to whistle a cheerful tune.  I never heard those words so frequently uttered by Country Squire station wagon driving dads on family roads trips: “DON’T make me pull this car over!” But my childhood was agreeable, not because I was the spawn of Ward and June Cleaver.  It was not because I was the Perfect Child.  It was calm for a singular reason – I was an Only Child.

But I needed a sibling.  I wanted a Big Brother just like my two best friends.  I begged my parents for a brother.  Without spilling the beans on the birds and bees, they gently explained that this was never, ever going to happen.  My six-year-old brain understood the word “no,” but not the underlying mechanics that prevented my plan from becoming a reality.

As a more worldly seven-year-old, I decided a baby sister would do.

As a second grader, I launched a full-scale Jack Abramoff-style lobbying effort to secure a sister.  I created a grassroots campaign utilizing the alliances of friends with younger siblings to influence my parents.  In a stroke of perfect timing the teacher asked the class to write a story about our family: the perfect opportunity for a journalistic expose of My Life With The World’s Most Unreasonable Parents.  As I read my story out loud, I watched with joy as my teacher’s eyes widened in what I assumed was horror at the situation known as my family life.  When she told me to stay behind at recess, I thought she would say, “You poor dear!  I can’t fathom that you’re forced to live with such selfish parents who don’t understand your need for a baby sister.  I’m calling them right now.” [Read more...]

Knowing What to Expect

Hop on over to What to Expect (yes, that max-family pic 6What to Expect).  I’m a guest columnist on Word of Mom.  Check out “The One Simple Rule for Naming Your Baby.

If you’re pregnant, have babies or toddlers – they’ve been the experts at helping you know What to Expect, literally, every step of the way.

Maternal Instinct

holding babySome women are born to be mothers.  Then there’s me.  The tell-tale signs of my lack of maternal instincts started at a tender age.  While other girls fussed and cooed over their plastic baby dolls, I cut all the hair off mine and left it naked in the backyard in the rain for five days.

When it came time to enter the babysitting ranks, my mother lined me up with my very first job.

It was also my last.

I took my young charges to the park to spend a fun-filled afternoon. As far as I was concerned, we had a great time.  So imagine my surprise when I was not only fired, but forever banned from babysitting, by my very own mother.  She informed me that I exhibited less-than good judgment while taking care of her best friend’s children.

I was perplexed. [Read more...]

Not Eggs-axctly What the Easter Bunny Had in Mind

egg huntAn Easter Egg Hunt at the Seattle’s Woodland Park Zoo turned from a festive spring holiday event into a hard boiled criminal case when two moms got into a fist fight.  According to witnesses, the fight started when one of the mothers shoved a kid out of the way so her snot-nosed brat could get to the plastic eggs first. Because nothing captures the spirit of this Christian holiday like punching another mom in the mouth in front of a bunch of kindergarteners.

Makes you wonder if they were filming an episode of Teen Mom 2.  .  .

The brawling women had to be separated multiple times.  After the profanity-laced tirade in front of 4-6 year-olds was over, one of the women left with more than an Easter basket – she also left with a bloody nose.

Talk about a bad eggs-xample of parenting.

Santa, for the sake of Mall Elves everywhere, put this chick on the naughty list.

Update: Thanks to the eyewitness account of a nearby woodland creature, police have cracked the case.

Jeans for Every Occasion. Seriously.

jeans

Ever since Jacob Davis and Levi Strauss invented them in 1873, workhorse blue jeans have been a part of the American landscape.  The advent of Lady Levis put them on the female fashion radar in 1934.  And we’ve had a love affair with all things denim ever since.

Although we adore our brands with a fierce loyalty, women have endured many incarnations of this iconic wardrobe staple.  We’ve paraded around with Gloria Vanderbilt, Calvin Klein and Jordache stamped on our derrieres. I’ve worn things that would warrant the Black Bar of Fashion Don’t Shame to hide my true identity when I donned trendy, less-than-flattering nightmares like jeggings (jean leggings), jorts (jean shorts) or that too-long denim skirt that made me bear an uncanny resemblance to Ma Ingalls.

In 1947, Wrangler introduced the “new jeans for cowboys.” But recently Wrangler made an inventive effort to reach out to the female consumer. And I bet their latest denim development has Jacob and Levi turning over in their graves – Wrangler Spa Denim Jeans – better known as moisturizing jeans. [Read more...]

When Cupid Makes You Stupid

Many people remember the instant it happens.  And nothing is ever the same.  The sun is brighter.  Mr. Bluebird lands on your shoulder because you’re just so darned happy.  You’ve become so annoying that your closest friends are actually plotting Mr. Bluebird’s untimely demise.

And that’s a sure sign that you are head over heels in love.

Every teenager experiences that universal rite of passage known as falling in love – usually with a person who doesn’t even know they occupy space on planet earth.  For me, it was probably best if I remained unnoticed by my high school Crush de Jour.  With my unibrow, a space between my front teeth big enough to park a Prius and a wardrobe from the Sears flammable collection, not being noticed was probably best to keep at least one tiny shard of my fragile teenage ego intact.

But eventually those unacknowledged teenage crushes pave the way for Real Life LOVE.  It’s On the Job Training for that life changing moment when Cupid runs over you driving that Mack Truck of full of Flaming Amore Arrows.  You can’t eat.  You can’t sleep. You can’t talk about anything but your One and Only.  That special someone has swept you off your feet.

It’s hopeless when you’re smitten.  Then it’s all over except for deciding between the FryDaddy Jr. or the George Foreman Grill for the registry.  What the heck, you only have a few weddings in this lifetime, make them special.  So don’t be greedy, you can ask for the Foreman on the next go round.

Those were the days.

It used to be simple.  But now with eHarmony, Speed Dating and Relationship Agreements, the Rules of Engagement as I learned them have been redefined.

Online dating confuses me.  Should your search for true love involve a search engine?  We’ve become so desperate that we’ll believe that skeevy eHarmony guy who I’m convinced is the Pina Colada Song Guy from the 80s.  Are we gullible enough to believe our soulmate looks just like Brad Pitt, who is a food and wine connoisseur and spends weekends at his cabin on the lake? While his online mugshot may resemble Young Brad from Thelma and Louise, it’s a much bleaker image in reality.  Your Online Sweetie’s country cabin could possibly involve wheels and cinder blocks and he may consider serving KFC from a bucket while swilling Miller Lite a gourmand’s delight.

After your encounter with Online Bad, you’ll fully understand why love is occasionally blind.

And now looking for love no longer has to waste time – with Speed Dating.  One night, twenty dates, four minutes each.  No awkward small talk or worries about food plastered on your front tooth.

Apparently it works.

Just ask the couple whose engagement announcement recalled their first speed date.  The groom-to-be summed it up succinctly in the New York Times, “She was articulate and worth seeing again.”

What sweet nothings will you utter at the altar, Romeo?  You’ll Do?

With that attitude, he’ll probably not even make it to Kim Kardashian’s martial finish line.

Now thanks to Mr. Facebook, we have Relationship Agreements to define our dating life.   Mark Zuckerberg may know a thing or two about online relationships but apparently he needed help with his real-life one.  Mark and his then-girlfriend wrote up a dating accord that required him to take her on one date and spend one hundred minutes with her a week.

So when you start swooning, make the call – to your attorney.

Maybe New York Times Bride-in-Waiting should follow Mark’s lead. She could definitely use a Relationship Agreement – with another guy.

 

 

 

When The Girls Go South

I’ve been spending time playing with paint, paper and scissors which will play hell with my upcoming deadline. Because Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest aren’t big enough Time Sucks in my life.

So before I throw myself into a Writing on Deadline Frenzy, here’s what I’ve been working on. It was inspired by a column about the not-so-subtle body changes that occur for women at midlife.

It’s really starting to piss me off.

Like the day you no longer need Victoria’s Sexy Secret Embrace Bra. Because when the girls start their trek to your personal southern hemisphere, you’ll need Victoria’s new Mid-Life Bra, sporting secret dual hydraulic jacks. And sadly, you’ll never be able to pull off that Madonna bra again.

Wrath of Khan

The Weather Channel is now naming winter storms.  The current one is Khan, cutting an icy path across the south (ironically targeting the area where my folks moved this week to get away from just such inclement weather.)  But Weather Channel, I beg you, stop naming the storms – you’re scaring the Southerners.  I guarantee you, there’s not a loaf of Wonder Bread, a gallon of milk or a single D battery in their tri-state area.

My mother bought them all.

This reminded me of a column I wrote in 2006 called Snow Daze.  I dug it out and dusted it off – it’ll give y’all something to read until the ice melts.
photo.JPG

Some wintertime habits die hard for this Kentucky girl.  Now I realize that in no way do Southern winters compare to those of Montana where annual snowfall is measured in feet.  But believe it or not, Kentucky receives its fair share of winter precipitation which no one living in the state knows how to safely navigate.  Instead, Kentuckians do the only reasonable thing they can think of: they shut the state down entirely until the snow melts.

A long standing tradition south of the Mason-Dixon Line is to head straight for the grocery store the moment the weather forecaster utters those fateful words: winter storm warning.  Now a winter storm in Kentucky usually amounts to about three inches of snow, sleet and freezing rain, artfully layered for maximum infrastructure disruption.  But the way Winn Dixie’s shelves are stripped bare of food you’d think we planned to be stranded for weeks on end.  Gallons of milk and loaves of Wonder bread are ceremoniously rung up, bagged and handed off with a “Ya’ll drive safe now” before the first flake falls from the sky.  It might still be 50 degrees outside but before they can start scrolling the weather alerts and anticipatory school closings across the bottom of the television screen, hungry residents, fearful of being stuck at home foodless, jam the parking lot of every grocery in the tri-state area.  [Read more...]

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