Meditation: Fail

The list of things I suck at (or "things at which I suck" . . . the English major in me doesn't like to end a sentence with a preposition, even though many grammar guides have now sanctioned it) has just grown. The list was already pretty long.

I cannot:

• accept a compliment
• knit, crochet, or sew
• do math
• play cards (I can, but pretend I can't because it's just so freaking boring)
• hit a ball or play an organized sport of any kind
• sing
• play an instrument or read music
• draw (you do not want me on your team for Pictionary)
• do the splits
• read a map properly
• run any reasonable distance without appearing as though I suffer from a neurological disorder
• understand what "penalty declined" means in NFL football

New entry: meditate. At church on Sunday, we had an interesting speaker. She runs a local yoga studio. She spoke about being "in the moment" and not letting your mind wander. It's definitely a challenge, being fully present. After speaking for a bit, she had the congregation members put our feet on the floor, close our eyes, and attempt to meditate. She rang a bill every 15 seconds or so, with the meditation lasting three minutes.

At first, I did manage to keep my mind pretty quiet. I tried to focus on my breathing. However, we were planning to go to Red Robin after church (P had accompanied the kid and me to the service), so pretty soon I started thinking, "Shroom Boca burger or Whiskey River Barbecue Boca burger?" Then I thought this: "We could get an appetizer, but why does Red Robin insist on bringing the entree thirty seconds after bringing the appetizer? That is so annoying!" Then, as the seconds ticked by, I started to find the bell itself irritating instead of soothing.

The next exercise was to turn to a neighbor and stare into their eyes for one minute. Despite the fact that I have been with my husband for 17 1/2 years, I could not do it. I should have done the exercise with someone I have not seen naked. Every time I tried to look into his handsome brown eyes, there he was smirking at me. Like, "I have seen you naked, too, lady." We gave up after about thirty seconds.

The nice lady who adopted Fritz is a Buddhist. Like many UUs, I'm very interested in Buddhist teachings and philosophies. So, imagine my excitement when Fritz's new mom handed me a set of Buddhist prayer beads. They are really beautiful. I carry them in my purse and hold them in my hand sometimes. I'm just fascinated by them. Anyway, when she handed them to me, I graciously thanked her for the gift by: dropping them on the floor. As they clattered and slid across the linoleum floor, I scrambled after them like the goober I am. So, I'm guessing that whatever energy they held has now drained out of them.

So, yes, I seem to be failing miserably in my quest to become a more grounded, reflective person. I cannot meditate, I cannot connect spiritually with my partner, and I cannot be trusted with sacred objects. I may try meditation again sometime, but fully expect the Red Robin issue to rear its ugly head again. I mean, seriously, why can't they stagger the appetizer and the entree? I just don't get it.

Talk about Old School

This afternoon we took A to her cousin's third birthday party. My sister-in-law wisely came to the conclusion that having a birthday party at your house every year is for the birds. The cooking, the cleaning, the unruly relatives, etc. So, she booked it in a bowling alley. The bowling alley was conveniently located in 1963. Don't get me wrong - I love hanging out in unpretentious joints that just barely meet health codes. We had a blast!

You gotta check out the decor, though.

Apparently this is the last place in the free world that allows smoking indoors. I didn't know which I found more aesthetically pleasing - the groovy stars or the soggy cigarette butt.

I wish I knew what the original ashtray looked like. I'm betting it was fab-u-lous.



Molded white and orange plastic seats? Check!


This baffled and frightened me most of all. No, the photo is not upside down. There was indeed a large custodial bucket strapped into the ceiling.



The only person at the party who knew how to keep score was my sister-in-law's grandma. After I scored a 72 in the first game, I suggested to her that she really did not need to do any more math for me.

The party was a lot of fun. As you can see from the photo above, our niece enjoyed the princess music set I bought for her. The set also included castanets, maracas, a tambourine, cymbals, and a trumpet. Why would I do this to my sister-in-law, you ask? Well, she started it. She threw down the gauntlet when she bought my kid a make-up set for Christmas. It contained lipstick, eye shadow, and nail polish (the real stuff - not "pretend" make-up). My daughter was delighted, of course. I tightened my jaw a bit. "I just want to be the fun auntie!" said my sister-in-law.

"Oh, you're a barrel of laughs, alright," I told her.

And this, my friends, is why I also included a set of Plah-Doh in the gift bag today. Oh, and a robotic kitty who meows. I think you'll agree that this was well-played on my part. My kid's birthday is coming up on May 3rd and I have a feeling we'll be receiving something that involves glitter and paint and possibly an ant farm. I am planning to counter with a live puppy.

Color me over-extended

First off, I did indeed go to my Weight Watchers meeting on Saturday, in case you wondered. Let it not be said that I am not a woman of my word. Normally, Nan at the scale would say something along the lines of, "You're not too far off; you're doing fine." On Saturday she busted out with, "You're up quite a bit." Well, see, I know because . . . I own a scale.

The meeting topic was highly relevant for me: emotional eating. For the past few days, I have been repeating the mantra from the meeting: "if hunger is not the problem, food is not the answer." Sometimes food tells me that it is the answer if I just ask the right question. Nonetheless, I recommitted myself to the program and so far this week has gone pretty well. I think part of my problem is that I am trying to do too much every day. By late afternoon, I am feeling pretty brittle and it doesn't take much to break me. Over-scheduled and over-extended, that's me.

On Monday nights, we have swim class. I am not one of those moms who puts her kid in every activity. She likes swim class and I feel like it's one of those skills that's as necessary as it is fun. Getting her to swim class on time involves packing a bag with her swimsuit and towel, putting dinner on the table, and then getting out the door with her by 6:05 p.m. It's harder than it sounds, in as much as there is laundry to be put away and dogs and cats needing to be fed (well, just one cat - but she is moderately Rubenesque).

On Tuesdays, I go to step aerobics. Sure, I could live without going to aerobics and indeed I do take the instructor's name in vain the whole time I am there, but when I leave, I am so physically exhausted that whatever I was fretting about on the way to class simply dissipates into thin air. Getting there on time is, again, a challenge. The class starts at 5:25 and is 20 minutes away. I try to get dinner on the table before I go but some weeks it's more like my husband and daughter are catching a sandwich in mid-air as I am flying down the driveway.

On Wednesdays, I take Gretchen to obedience class. She has progressed into the Novice class, which starts at 5:00. If you thought I had a hard time getting out the door for aerobics, you should see me on Wednesdays. My husband gets home at 4:40, the exact time I have to leave for class. The class is, again, an activity that is not required, but I am determined to compete in Obedience and possibly Agility and Gretchen is coming along whether she likes it or not. I should add that she's actually doing quite well in class. She no longer needs a training collar and has started going off-leash work.

On Thursday nights, P works his second job. I try to get caught up with housework on Thursdays so that I don't have to do it on the weekend. Nothing ruins a Saturday like a load of laundry. I don't get as much done as I'd like because, as you may have guessed, my daughter requires a high degree of interaction. She is not the do-a-puzzle-quietly-in-her-room type.

Things do settle down by Friday night and even though weekends are also heavily scheduled, they are less stressful. I think I just need to make sure I stop signing us up for obedience classes and swim classes in the same session. I'm also anxious for school to end, because right now our schedules are tied to that. I have to get to work by 7 in order to pick the kid up at 3:30. And getting to work at 7 is a fantastic feat, let me tell you - particularly since my friends at the highway department decided to rip apart the bridge that I need to cross in order to get to work.

Anyway, enough with the whining. Yes, I am insanely busy (and I didn't even mention the mucho hours I spend every week as a rescue volunteer), but please know that I did take time out to enjoy a tea party with my curly girly yesterday. We drank tea and spoke very formally about how pajama day at school had been such a meaningful experience for her, as well as covering other sundry topics.

"Excuse me, Miss Hostess," I said, "My tea cup has teeth marks on it, kinda like a dog has been chewing on it."

She frowned, irritated that I'd bring up such an unseemly topic during such a refined affair.

"I notice you have a contusion on your forehead. How did you get that?" I asked.

A raised her hand to her head. "I falled at the back door," she replied.

"Now, this is just my personal opinion, but I really think you should consider falling down much less frequently." I took another sip of my air tea.

She nodded and raised her chin. "I will consider it."

Permanence

At Winterfest this afternoon

It occurred to me recently that my daughter is now old enough to start creating permanent memories. My first memories date back to the time I was around four. My maternal grandmother, after whom I am named, died when I was three and I have just slivers of her, like faint Polaroids that never quite developed, in my head. My middle sister was born when I was four and a half and most of my memories are pretty solid from that time on.

This past Friday night, the moon was said to be the closest, brightest full moon I'd ever see again in my lifetime. So, at around 9 p.m. I called the kid outside onto the deck, making sure she had on a pair of slippers to go with her princess nightgown. The temperatures were in the single digits. We shivered on the deck for a few brief moments, ooh-ing and ah-ing over the spectacular sky. She then ran into the house and made her daddy come and look, too. He complied but then grumbled about how it was too cold to be outside. I asked, "But what if this is the thing she remembers when she is 30? What if she says, 'Remember the time we saw the brightest moon?'"

Sometimes I find it a little depressing that she won't remember all the fun stuff we've done up to now: the road trips, the flights, the festivals. We took her to Texas when she was two and all she could remember from that trip was that we'd had eggs for breakfast one day. This is exactly the reason we have not taken her to Disney World yet. Well, that and the fact that I'd have to sell a kidney to afford it.

I suppose all we, as parents, can really hope is that our children are left with the sense that they were well-loved in the early years, even if they have no specific recollection of that time. In our case, our daughter will have plenty of photos she can use to confirm we didn't lock her in the basement for the first few years. In fact, I have over 4,000 photos on my hard drive that were taken from her birth until now. She has been on the planet fewer than 2,000 days so I'd say that's . . . pretty obnoxious. What can I say? I waited a long time for the privilege of irritating friends and family members. Thank goodness for Facebook, which allows me to annoy everyone simultaneously.

The demon I cannot slay

It’s official. I’ve lost control.

I’m not meant to be a genuinely thin person, this I know. But I’m not necessarily willing to be fat, either. I joined Weight Watchers in 2005 and hit my goal weight at the end of 2006. I continued to struggle with the same ten pounds or so for the next two years. I'd lose a little, I'd gain a little. In the fall of 2008, I decided to get a bit more disciplined with counting points and tracking what I put in my mouth. By December of that year, I was back at my goal weight. I then fought hard to maintain it for the next ten months. I was genuinely proud of myself. I knew I wasn’t cured of my compulsion to eat more than my body needs, but I thought I had it mostly under control. Then, in September of 2009, the stress in my life overtook me. Our team was cut in half at work, and I was left with an impossible workload. I gained four pounds that week. The last four weeks at my new job have left me grateful to be gainfully employed, but struggling to learn new systems, new software, new procedures. I have steadily gained weight with each passing day.

Believe it or not, I have continued to exercise pretty regularly. I bought one of those weighted hula hoops and use that sometimes at night. I go to an intensive step aerobics class every Tuesday. I now belong to the gym and hit the treadmill when I can. However, nothing can really counteract the sheer volume of calories I have been consuming.

Once my weight starts to get out of control, the voice in my head gets ever louder. "You won't ever be pretty, no matter what you do, so why not eat?" And so, I eat. It's powerful, that voice.

I have not attended a Weight Watchers meeting since early December. I kept thinking that I would get my weight back under control on my own and then go back. Clearly, my ill-conceived plan is not working. There is nothing left to do but . . . go back. And so, I shall lumber into the meeting on Saturday and hoist myself onto the scale. Perhaps I shall regain my motivation. I've done it before, I'll do it again.

On a lighter note, the longer commute to work has left me more time to catch up on podcasts and listen to music. I have over 1500 songs on my iPod and yet some days I can't seem to find anything I want to hear. Here are two songs that never fail to get my toe tapping.

Bought a sweater for his Weimeraner, too! [clap clap]

Do you wanna take a ride on his disco stick?

I picked up a new foster dog on Saturday. I was a little bit nervous about taking on a new pooch because my last foster dog, Fritz, was so easy to have around. I knew I wouldn't get that lucky again. Montana was surrendered because his owners are divorcing and selling their house. Neither spouse could take him in their respective apartments. Montana is a handsome three-year-old white Boxer (not deaf, as some whites are). He's good with kids and dogs. He's really a very nice dog.

There is one major problem with Montana, however: his ginormous testicles. He has been attempting to violate my dogs since his arrival. I've told him, "Take a cold shower! Think about baseball!" All to no avail. After a weekend we are now affectionately referring to as Humpfest 2010, I gave some serious consideration to neutering him myself. I have a basic idea of how it's done and could feel my frustration growing with each thrust of his little white hips. As he is preparing to hump one of my dogs, he does this little cha-cha-cha step where he juts his rear legs out behind him, alternating in quick succession. I called my vet clinic this morning and got him in for next Monday. Gideon is having a minor surgery the same day, so that way I can drop them both off at the same time. I hope we last that long.

In the mean time, we've got six more days to tolerate Humpy McHumperton. I remember learning in school about the Supreme Court's attempt to define obscenity. Here is the definition:

1) A thing must be prurient in nature

2) A thing must be completely devoid of scientific, political, educational, or social value

3) A thing must violate the local community standards

If it meets all three of these things, it is obscenity.

I think we are pretty close with what's been going on at our house. First, Montana attempted to make sweet love to Gideon, my male Boxer. Gideon, who generally tolerates just about anything, turned on Montana and told him where he could put his desire. This scene repeated itself several times until Montana did actually absorb the message. Gideon's actions surprised me a little because normally he is so easygoing with other dogs. As I've often said, "If Gideon doesn't like your dog, your dog's probably a dick."

Gretchen, for whatever reason, has not been as successful in thwarting Montana's advances. She's tried telling him politely, "Hey, no thanks!" She informed him that she signed one of those celibacy contracts in high school. She's tried telling him less politely. But still, he perseveres. He licks her cheek and then does the cha-cha-cha. And so on it goes. As Gretchen moves from room to room, Montana follows along behind her, humping the air as he goes. "And you thought I was bad," said my oft-neglected husband.

After giving my daughter a shower this evening, she started saying how she knows Montana's a boy because he's got a penis. "Does he ever," I thought to myself. I feared the conversation would spiral out of control from there, but she didn't ask any questions. Thank God for small miracles.

Pukey McPukerton

I got THE call on Wednesday. The "your child is sick" call from school that every parent dreads. When I got the call, it was less than an hour before school would be letting out for the day, but I left as soon as I could and drove across town to retrieve her. I parked and then headed for the school office. "Hi," said the lady at the front desk. "She just threw up down there."

I walked down to my daughter's classroom. I'm not sure why she wasn't in the clinic or something, but maybe I'm just not hip to how these things work yet. When I got to the kindergarten pod, she wasn't in her classroom. The whole class was outside. I found the right door to get outside and immediately spotted the kid. She was bundled up in her snowsuit and had her backpack on, and as soon as I called her name and she turned to look at me, I could tell she felt like dump. The class's paraprofessional walked over with my daughter. "I took her to the bathroom, in case she had to go again," she said. Then she raised her hands to her mouth and attempted to pantomime something flying out of her face at a high velocity. Apparently my daughter did a number on the tile floor with the contents of her stomach. God bless the janitor, that's all I gotta say.

A wanted to be picked up so I carried her all the way back across the school and to the car. All the while I was carrying her, I was thinking, "We are breathing the same oxygen here. I will be hurling within 24 hours." I settled her into her car seat and drove her home. She said very little, which is highly unusual for her. When we got home, I de-snowsuited her and got her into some pajamas. I set her up in her bed with her portable DVD player and also handed her a bowl. And then I washed my hands in scalding hot water.

I checked on her periodically and when "Bolt" was over I said, "What would you like to watch next, baby?" And her response is how I knew she was truly sick:

"You pick something for me, Mommy." My daughter would never relinquish control over even the simplest decision in her life, so the fact that she wanted me to choose something for her told me that she was definitely down for the count. Or, that the apocalypse might be imminent.

Later, I took Gretchen to obedience class (yes, we are still doing that) and while I was gone, the kid vomited multiple times. However, she hit the bowl every time and I have to give her a lot of credit for that. I was missing the toilet right up until my teen years (you can ask my mother if you need to validate this information).

P stayed home with her on Thursday. She'd stopped puking by then, but was not eating. On Friday, we sent her back to school. She fell asleep at 6:30 p.m. on Friday evening and slept 12 hours. By Saturday, she was back to normal.

As for her parents, so far we haven't caught it. I washed my hands at least a gazillion times between Wednesday and Saturday. I didn't feel particularly great on Friday night, and when passing one of those scented "Wallflowers" in my bedroom induced a wave of nausea, I thought sure the plague had come for me, too. But, I felt fine Saturday morning and even dragged my fat ass to the gym, so there you go.

Stay tuned for the adventures of Humpy McHumperton, my new (intact) foster dog who arrived on Saturday.