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Showing posts from March, 2010

Week one report

Down 3.5 pounds. Booyah!

Enjoy this upbeat little ditty. I dare you not to whistle. Mondays need more whistling, for sure.

Weekend Timeline

Friday evening: I attended a pet expo with the kid. We collected a lot of junk. A lot of the booths had "spin the wheel" games and of course my daughter had to spin every one (usually a buck a spin). She won everything from a stencil to a throw pillow. Since I knew a lot of people there (friends from various rescues), I had to stop several times to run my mouth. Every time I turned around, the kid had something new in her hand or in her mouth (candy giveaways). She may or may not have stolen a plastic chick full of dog treats. I never did figure out where it came from.

Friday night, just before midnight: I got up to use the facilities, and slammed my foot into the step stool in the bathroom. The stool (which is actually a heavy, wooden, two-step affair) has been in that bathroom since last July, but I guess my foot forgot. When I got up the next morning, my toe hurt but did not appear to be broken. I decided to go to Weight Watchers and then to the gym, but figured I'd do…

I know a young woman

I know a young woman with beautiful brown eyes and a head full of music and auburn curls. She has birthed two little red-haired boys, and loves them fiercely. She is a wonderful mother, always striking that balance between letting the boys incur a few scraped knees while still keeping them out of harm's way.
She is a free spirit, unattached to material things for the most part. You might call her a hippy chick. She's happy grooving to music (made by offbeat indie bands) on satellite radio and has even been known to beat a tribal drum (literally).

Edicts like "a place for every thing, and every thing in its place" hold little meaning for her. If something explodes in the microwave, she will probably just leave it there. I visited her in her dorm room once when she was in college. "Oh, don't step over there," she instructed me, pointing at a tile on the floor. "Ramen noodle spill."
As a child, she was day-dreamy and thoughtful. On family car trip…

Dance Dance Revolution (+ Six-Week Plan)

So, you're probably wondering about the conclusion of my critical "dance or no dance" debate. I received feedback via my blog, Facebook, and in person (almost all were in favor, though every respondent admittedly fell into the "I'm not the one who has to buy the tap shoes" category). I also asked my daughter if she'd like to take dance classes or swim classes, and she had a go at convincing me to let her take both in the same session. Not happening.
After conferring with my other half (who, quite honestly, would not care if I enrolled our child in Ultimate Fighting classes), I decided to sign the kid up for a seven-week dance session at the YMCA. This way, if we run into issues with her not listening, we won't be on the hook for a ton of money. I'm also bidding on some tap shoes on eBay and hope to have those by the time the class starts (unless some whore-mom outbids me, which is what usually happens). If this short session at the Y works out, …

Danser? Ou non?

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Dance: by the people, for the people
Some of A's classmates are taking dance lessons and now she wants to take dance classes as well. She spins in the kitchen and does ballet (and I use the term loosely) moves that she learned from her friend Carly at school. She assures me these steps are totally legit. A spreads her feet wide apart and then brings them together, spins in a circle, and says, "Bar-shay! Far-shay!" Yeah, Carly's mom is getting her money's worth, too. As you may recall, we tried this dance class business once before and it didn't go terribly well. The instructor said my daughter didn't listen and as far as I can recall, the kid retained nothing from the session. After paying for classes and buying tap shoes, ballet shoes, leotards, tights, and so forth, I was not too happy about the outcome. It seemed she just wanted to look like a dancer, not be a dancer. Since then, we've stuck with swim classes at the Y because she enjoys them, is doin…

Piggy Bank Discipline

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In keeping with my new motto (Claudia Marie: ruining one kid's life since 2005), I tried a new disciplinary tactic yesterday.

To take you back to the beginning, we are having some trouble with hair-related implements around here. If my daughter does not approve of how I fix her hair in the morning, she somehow gets a teacher-type person to re-do it at some point in the day. Other times, she simply rips out the ponytail holder, barrette, whatever, and shoves it in her backpack. Her goal is to look like a homeless street urchin by the time I arrive on the blacktop at 3:33 p.m. She is successful more days than not. My daughter has curly hair that does, in my book, require some taming. And believe me, I try my best, but she is pretty determined. A future hippie, perhaps.

On Monday night, we went to Target and I bought her some new headbands and ponytail holders. She clutched them to her chest and grinned as though I'd made all of her dreams come true. We talked about how she …

Spring, spring, it's a marvelous thing

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I saw a red-winged blackbird today, generally a sure sign that spring has arrived. At this time of year I always find myself scanning the tall grass along the side of the highway, hoping to see that flash of black and reddish-orange. And today I spotted it (also, numerous flattened raccoons). The snow has mostly melted and I must tell you: I wore some very cute floral flats today.

The reason for my journey today was to take Montana to his new home (about two hours away). We are really going to miss him, as he is a very sweet dog. I've mostly suppressed the memories of the humpfest that kicked off his stay in our home. A penned a good-bye song in Montana's honor and played it for him on her princess guitar. It went something like, "My friend, my friend, I'll miss you, Montana." Basically, just repeat that line a few dozen times and you've got the song. I hope in time she'll have a better understanding of why dogs stay with us and then leave.

We'll …

Wow, the economy is worse off than I thought

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I saw this sign at Hollywood Video.

And to think we spent all that money on adoption fees!


Listen here, punk

As anyone who is well acquainted with me will tell you, music is important to me (and that my iPod ranks just below my daughter and just above my husband on my unofficial list of "things I dig"). I listen to lots of different types of music (except jazz because, really, why?) and when I'm not listening to music I'm often listening to a podcast about music. Therefore, it has been a source of some distress to me that I could only listen to my iPod in my coolmobile via one of those tape deck adapters. The sound was mediocre at best, but I lived with it for 2 1/2 years. It became apparently me in recent weeks, though, that I'd worn out the tape deck. I'm in my car a lot. Between driving to work, daycare, kindergarten, pet expos, and driving dogs around the state for the rescue, I'm on the road quite a bit. And my tolerance for top 40 radio is pretty low.

P and I did have a talk about how to use our tax refund. He needs a crown in his mouth, so part of our refu…

Get my what out of my what?

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When I picked up my adorable little cherub from school on Thursday, she was very anxious to share some information with me. So anxious, in fact, that she felt the need to impart this information immediately, in the school's parking lot.
She shed her backpack and then stood on the asphalt, with her feet spread fairly far apart. "Mama," she started, "When your underwear gets stuck in your gyna, you should do this!"

She then proceeded to jump up and down, moving her legs in and out in a modified jumping jack (no involvement from the arms was needed, apparently).
I looked around to see how many parents were still on the premises. "Okay, thanks, I'll keep that in mind," I murmured to my daughter, and then hoisted her into the open van.

So there you have it. In turn, I am passing this tidbit to you, just in case you ever find yourself with your drawers hopelessly entangled in your nether region. No, no need to thank me.

I've Reached Maximum Winter

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Winter has worn out its welcome. Truly.

Each weekday I pick up a small, curly-headed child from her elementary school. Said child runs across the blacktop towards me wearing boots, snow pants (she tucks her dress into her snow pants, ya'll), mittens, a coat, a hat, and usually a scarf. As soon as she gets home, her winter gear is cast off into six different locations around the house. Then the dogs help out by dragging around some of the items with their teeth. I round everything up again, muttering under my breath as I go.

Now that it is March, the crisp freshly-fallen snow has given way to . . . snirt. Giant, dingy piles of snirt everywhere. And snirt is somehow exactly as appealing to a small child as snow is. All the kids at school scale the snirt piles on the playground and roll back down them. Therefore, my child is usually dirty when I pick her up - or at least her snow pants are. I've washed those bleeping pants at least a hundred thousand times this winter. Ye…