Well, obviously baby news sells. I had more readers yesterday than I've ever had and doubled my previous record. But, I promise not to make this some gross blog about my pregnancy aches and pains and etc.
However, I do have to share my first moment of pregnancy hysteria. I think all first-time pregnant women have these moments. (Except those lunatics who go nine months and deliver a baby without ever knowing they were pregnant. I'm not sure how that happens. I don't even recognize my body or its actions anymore, let alone think that what is going on here is part of my normal bodily functions. If I wasn't pregnant, I'd be convinced I was dying. I'd go to the doctor either way.)
Mine, embarrassingly, happened in the first week I knew I was pregnant. I took my home test on Tuesday, confirmed on Thursday and made my first call to the doctor's emergency line on Sunday afternoon. I know, I'm a champion hysteric.
The problem was (and still is, unfortunately) those abdominal cramps I mentioned yesterday. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I started having abdominal pains. They weren't that bad, just occasional cramping when I'd lie down to go to sleep or stand up after sitting for a long time. I know now that they are referred to as "round ligament pain" and are caused by the ligaments in your body going all Mr. Fantastic in preparation for everything in your torso getting mashed to one side by an invading force (also known as a baby).
The cramps were totally manageable until Saturday night, when I awoke from a sound sleep feeling like my internal organs were trying to become external. I went into the bathroom, thinking I was going to be sick. Then I started to shake and sweat (I think this was just a stress reaction). At that point, I did what any logical woman would do. I hollered for my husband. Tony staggered into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and terrified and immediately grabbed The Pregnancy Bible and started thumbing through the pages, trying to find an answer for why his wife had suddenly become this shreiking, crying monster at three in the morning. Eventually, things got better and I went back to sleep. I think Tony was so traumatized he had to have three valium and a drink before he could rest again.
On Sunday afternoon, the pain returned and I moved to plan B. I called my mom. Her response to my questions (am I okay? can I take some painkillers?) was this: "Lacy, it has been 29 years since I gave birth and back then, I was just winging it."
Super. Always good to know your mother was playing it fast and loose when pregnant with you.
After that very helpful advice, I broke down and called the emergency hotline, where they THREATEN TO CHARGE YOU IF YOUR CALL ISN'T REALLY AN EMERGENCY. So now on top of the abdominal pain, I'm feeling anxiety about whether my doctor would classify this as an emergency or just go ahead and charge me $75 for being stupid. My message sounded something like this: "Um, hi. This is Lacy Coutsoftides. (sob) I'm five weeks pregnant and (sob) having some really painful abdominal cramps. (big sniffle, sob) I just don't know if this is normal or if I'm having a situation here. (sob sob sob) It would be really great if someone could call me back. Thanks so much!"
Five minutes later, the doctor called me back. She's my favorite doctor because she dispenses information like this: "The first thing I want you to do is take a deep breath. You are fine." and "I want you to chug water like you used to chug beer in college, Lacy."
See, awesome doctor. She also told me to schedule an ultrasound for the next morning - incidentally, the first day Tony and I were in business. Sigh.
But I did. I scheduled that ultrasound, went in and to my delight and surprise, had to have another trans-vaginal ultrasound, the kind where the ultrasound tech jams a wand up into your nethers and waves it around while you try not to cry and your husband tries not to vomit on her, you, the ultrasound machine and the other people in the waiting room. Superdeduper.
After that joyful experience, we saw another doctor, who assured me that she could DETERMINE NOTHING FROM THIS ULTRASOUND and I'd have to wait until my regular one in two weeks to know if I was okay and the baby was growing at the right pace. So, I drove forty-five minutes to the office, waited a total of two hours in the waiting room, got violated by yet another ultrasound tech and drove forty-five minutes back for exactly no information.
Needless to say, I cried the whole way home.
But Tony and I are being optimistic. We go in on the 5th for the official ultrasound (OUTSIDE MY BODY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!) and I'm sure everything will be fine then. If not, I'll just cry all the way home again. I'm good at that.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Breaking news.....
Alright, here's the deal. I haven't been blogging because some big things have been happening behind the scenes here in Coutsoftides-land and I've been both preoccupied and unwilling to talk about all of it.
But the time has come. I'm tired of the secrets, the lies, the avoiding my blog because I know I'm a big bean-spiller and there just isn't any way for me to write about anything else when all of this is going on.
I'm pregnant.
Whew, that feels better.
See, the problem is, I'm only five weeks and three days pregnant, so I shouldn't actually be telling you for seven more weeks about this. HOWEVER, as any of you who know me personally can attest, if there is something going on in my personal life that I can mine for laughs or sympathy, I'm probably going to tell everyone the minute I can.
Also, Tony has been telling everyone, from our close friends to a guy we've just started doing business with who doesn't know anything about us other than we own a business and we are pregnant. Awesome. So I figure you'll find out sooner or later anyhow.
Finally, if something bad does happen (which I'm sure it won't) I know I'd write about it here, so there is no sense in keeping it a secret any longer.
The irony of the situation (because you know there has to be irony in any situation involving me) is that I found out I was pregnant less than a week before we opened our business and I'm due the same week we are planning to open larger, much more time-intensive operations. Go me! So I'm sitting here at my computer, nodding off at 9 a.m., struggling with heartburn, leg cramps and bizarre food cravings (sauerkraut, anyone?) while trying to learn an entirely new business model from the ground up.
And let's talk a little about the "miracle" of pregnancy, shall we? You all know that Tony and I have been trying to get pregnant for the better part of a year, which in no way lessens the "HOLY CRAP" moment when there are two bars on the pregnancy test instead of the usual one. After that moment, and the ensuing two days of hysteria waiting for my chance to go to the doctor's office for confirmation (I was convinced they were going to tell me it was imaginary and send me home), the first-trimester symptoms set in.
Seriously, I've become the seven dwarfs of pregnancy - sleepy, grumpy, bloaty, gassy, weepy, clumsy and hungry. (I am also the four horseman of the pregnancy apocalypse - Craving, Heartburn, Exhaustion and Abdominal Cramp.) Thankfully, I haven't really had any morning sickness yet (although that's supposed to start this week, so wish me luck!), but might mean I'm having a boy, which would be an utter disappointment and I may have to make the baby live in the back yard. I'M KIDDING! He could stay in the basement.
Anyhow, I've read What to Expect When You're Expecting 35 million times by now and there are some things they don't tell you about pregnancy that are important to know.
1. Yeah, yeah, they tell you that you might get food cravings and aversions. What they don't tell you is that it can change your whole perception of yourself, and not necessarily for the better. For instance, I've always been a sweets girl. I love cookies, candies, cakes, ice cream, chocolate sauce, baking chocolate, raw sugar, you name it. Yeah, well, not since Junior set up camp in my uterus. Now, the smell of the bakery at the grocery store sends me running for the bathroom. I bought a brownie sundae last night and only ate HALF of it and that was a struggle. I have thrown away more ice cream in the past week than I have in my entire life, and it HURTS, people. Now all I want to eat are ham sandwiches and french fries, which Tony won't let me eat. (The french fries. I can have as many ham sandwiches as I want. Yesterday it was three. Don't judge me.)
2. Pregnancy hurts. Between the heartburn, the ginormous boobs and the gas that shows up out of nowhere to blow up your stomach to Ethiopian proportions, you think that would be enough. But no! For the past three nights, I've been waking up with abdominal cramps and lower-back pain strong enough to send me into a whimpering pile on the floor. Which is terrifying and apparently COMPLETELY NORMAL. Really? Really? I'm just supposed to deal with feeling like I'm having either the onset of the worst period of my life or amoebic dysentery every day for the NEXT TWO MONTHS. Super.
3. The weepies. Now, I understand that some people might categorize me as "emotional" even on the best day. I cry, I get angry, I know. However, yesterday, I scraped my elbow on the railing and howled like a four-year-old who just fell off the monkey bars and broken a limb. Tony thought I'd impaled myself and was bleeding to death. The day before that, I was in Home Depot looking at home decorating books for children's rooms and started to sob. I seem to fluctuate between homicidal rage and the urge to cuddle the person I've just killed with alarming frequency. And the rest of the time, I'm just crying. I've given up on mascara altogether and am adopting a more natural look, as to prevent the Courtney Love look I was cultivating.
4. You become a slave to your own body. Being the owner of a pregnant body is a lot like being the husband of a pregnant woman in a television sitcom. One minute, everything is fine, the next BAM! You need to do something RIGHT NOW to make everything better. And by the time you do that, something else is necessary. For instance, food. I wake up in the morning hungry for something in particular. Today, it was apple juice. However, by the time I walked downstairs, I wanted french fries. Once I opened the fridge, I really wanted some cottage cheese, but once the carton was in my hand, toast sounded better. Then there are the physical symptoms that blast in out of nowhere. I'll be sitting quietly at my desk when a tummy growl is followed immediately by the type of stomach bloat that makes you hurt up into your neck, and NOTHING makes it feel better. Not even walking, followed by laying on the floor while your husband rubs your distended stomach. At times, I just want to look at this foreign entity that used to be my body and shout, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I'LL DO ANYTHING, ANYTHING, JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" At that point, you can almost hear your body laughing at you, cruelly.
So yeah, pregnancy is awesome and crappy all at the same time.
And now I need a snack, a nap, a snuggle and a gun.
But the time has come. I'm tired of the secrets, the lies, the avoiding my blog because I know I'm a big bean-spiller and there just isn't any way for me to write about anything else when all of this is going on.
I'm pregnant.
Whew, that feels better.
See, the problem is, I'm only five weeks and three days pregnant, so I shouldn't actually be telling you for seven more weeks about this. HOWEVER, as any of you who know me personally can attest, if there is something going on in my personal life that I can mine for laughs or sympathy, I'm probably going to tell everyone the minute I can.
Also, Tony has been telling everyone, from our close friends to a guy we've just started doing business with who doesn't know anything about us other than we own a business and we are pregnant. Awesome. So I figure you'll find out sooner or later anyhow.
Finally, if something bad does happen (which I'm sure it won't) I know I'd write about it here, so there is no sense in keeping it a secret any longer.
The irony of the situation (because you know there has to be irony in any situation involving me) is that I found out I was pregnant less than a week before we opened our business and I'm due the same week we are planning to open larger, much more time-intensive operations. Go me! So I'm sitting here at my computer, nodding off at 9 a.m., struggling with heartburn, leg cramps and bizarre food cravings (sauerkraut, anyone?) while trying to learn an entirely new business model from the ground up.
And let's talk a little about the "miracle" of pregnancy, shall we? You all know that Tony and I have been trying to get pregnant for the better part of a year, which in no way lessens the "HOLY CRAP" moment when there are two bars on the pregnancy test instead of the usual one. After that moment, and the ensuing two days of hysteria waiting for my chance to go to the doctor's office for confirmation (I was convinced they were going to tell me it was imaginary and send me home), the first-trimester symptoms set in.
Seriously, I've become the seven dwarfs of pregnancy - sleepy, grumpy, bloaty, gassy, weepy, clumsy and hungry. (I am also the four horseman of the pregnancy apocalypse - Craving, Heartburn, Exhaustion and Abdominal Cramp.) Thankfully, I haven't really had any morning sickness yet (although that's supposed to start this week, so wish me luck!), but might mean I'm having a boy, which would be an utter disappointment and I may have to make the baby live in the back yard. I'M KIDDING! He could stay in the basement.
Anyhow, I've read What to Expect When You're Expecting 35 million times by now and there are some things they don't tell you about pregnancy that are important to know.
1. Yeah, yeah, they tell you that you might get food cravings and aversions. What they don't tell you is that it can change your whole perception of yourself, and not necessarily for the better. For instance, I've always been a sweets girl. I love cookies, candies, cakes, ice cream, chocolate sauce, baking chocolate, raw sugar, you name it. Yeah, well, not since Junior set up camp in my uterus. Now, the smell of the bakery at the grocery store sends me running for the bathroom. I bought a brownie sundae last night and only ate HALF of it and that was a struggle. I have thrown away more ice cream in the past week than I have in my entire life, and it HURTS, people. Now all I want to eat are ham sandwiches and french fries, which Tony won't let me eat. (The french fries. I can have as many ham sandwiches as I want. Yesterday it was three. Don't judge me.)
2. Pregnancy hurts. Between the heartburn, the ginormous boobs and the gas that shows up out of nowhere to blow up your stomach to Ethiopian proportions, you think that would be enough. But no! For the past three nights, I've been waking up with abdominal cramps and lower-back pain strong enough to send me into a whimpering pile on the floor. Which is terrifying and apparently COMPLETELY NORMAL. Really? Really? I'm just supposed to deal with feeling like I'm having either the onset of the worst period of my life or amoebic dysentery every day for the NEXT TWO MONTHS. Super.
3. The weepies. Now, I understand that some people might categorize me as "emotional" even on the best day. I cry, I get angry, I know. However, yesterday, I scraped my elbow on the railing and howled like a four-year-old who just fell off the monkey bars and broken a limb. Tony thought I'd impaled myself and was bleeding to death. The day before that, I was in Home Depot looking at home decorating books for children's rooms and started to sob. I seem to fluctuate between homicidal rage and the urge to cuddle the person I've just killed with alarming frequency. And the rest of the time, I'm just crying. I've given up on mascara altogether and am adopting a more natural look, as to prevent the Courtney Love look I was cultivating.
4. You become a slave to your own body. Being the owner of a pregnant body is a lot like being the husband of a pregnant woman in a television sitcom. One minute, everything is fine, the next BAM! You need to do something RIGHT NOW to make everything better. And by the time you do that, something else is necessary. For instance, food. I wake up in the morning hungry for something in particular. Today, it was apple juice. However, by the time I walked downstairs, I wanted french fries. Once I opened the fridge, I really wanted some cottage cheese, but once the carton was in my hand, toast sounded better. Then there are the physical symptoms that blast in out of nowhere. I'll be sitting quietly at my desk when a tummy growl is followed immediately by the type of stomach bloat that makes you hurt up into your neck, and NOTHING makes it feel better. Not even walking, followed by laying on the floor while your husband rubs your distended stomach. At times, I just want to look at this foreign entity that used to be my body and shout, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I'LL DO ANYTHING, ANYTHING, JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" At that point, you can almost hear your body laughing at you, cruelly.
So yeah, pregnancy is awesome and crappy all at the same time.
And now I need a snack, a nap, a snuggle and a gun.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Food Porn
I love food. Those of you who know me know how much I love food. It is a passion grown out of a lifetime of being hungry, constantly hungry and trying to find new ways to satisfy that hunger.
I'm just glad the rest of America has caught up with me.
Last night, I sat in drooly awe of the dishes served up on Top Chef (my favorite television show). Well, not so much the escargot, which I've had a few times and never really developed a taste for, but the lobster, the rabbit, the poussin, the bernaise, the sauce Americain, mmmmmmmmm.
But I realized something a few years ago about Top Chef and programs like it - they are food porn.
No, I'm not saying that the chefs stand around and make their ingredients have sex with each other (that's another type of show entirely), but the music, the lighting, the conversation - all porn.
The ingredients are piled high on tables - glossy, perfect vegetables, succulent meats, glistening bottles of olive oil - all poised for their performance. The pots and pans are scrubbed to a sheen and the counter tops always glow softly in the studio lighting. Not like my kitchen, where the pots are dented and have scorch marks on the handles and I have to scrape a week's worth of mail off the counter before I can start cooking.
The unreality of porn also translates to the shopping trips. No matter how many items these chefs pile in their little carts, no one ever leaves Whole Foods with more than two re-usable, earth-friendly bags. I can be making dinner for three people and leave the store with bags hanging off my arms, in my teeth, tied to my waist, but these folks can cook dinner for 200 lumberjacks from two dainty bags.
Things get a little more real when the cooking happens - chefs running around, sweating like pigs, chopping, stirring, blending, shouting, etc. That looks more like my cooking life, but with less blood. (I'm kind of a crazy chopper.)
But the real apex (I daren't say climax) comes when the finished product is presented. The food coming out of the kitchen is lovingly plated, with swirls of sauce, dabs of condiments and sprigs of garnish. The descriptions are even more elaborate:
"What I've done here, chefs, is oil-poach the trout in a reduction of balsamic and then fricassee it with a mix of mushrooms for the earthiness - you've got morels, shitake and button mushrooms in there - and that's sitting on top of a red-wine and baby rabbit liver risotto - I butchered that baby rabbit by hand to make sure it was done right - with an infusion of caramel for sweetness and chamomile for freshness. For acidity I've added some speed-zested Meyer lemons with a spritz of crab-apple vinegar. We've got some micro greens dressed in a little pomegranate juice and rabbit fat. To top it off, chiffonade of pineapple and a little mustard green garnish. Oh, and a little aubergine foam."
I never have any idea what the hell they are talking about, but the picture of the plate looks so delicious in its perfection and soft lighting that I can't help but to drool a little. I imagine the flavors, even though I don't know what some of them even taste like. I pretend I'm eating along with Tom, my favorite judge, and that Padma doesn't look nearly as good in person. Watching the show late at night is the worst, though, because you always head into the kitchen afterward, ravenously hungry and with nothing to eat except a high-fiber English muffin and some stale saltines.
The worst part about it is the effect it has on your own life, just like porn. You can never live up to those standards, people. My food never involves foams or mache, just like my sex life doesn't involve breast implants or other women.
But a girl can dream.
ABOUT THE FOOD, PEOPLE.
I'm just glad the rest of America has caught up with me.
Last night, I sat in drooly awe of the dishes served up on Top Chef (my favorite television show). Well, not so much the escargot, which I've had a few times and never really developed a taste for, but the lobster, the rabbit, the poussin, the bernaise, the sauce Americain, mmmmmmmmm.
But I realized something a few years ago about Top Chef and programs like it - they are food porn.
No, I'm not saying that the chefs stand around and make their ingredients have sex with each other (that's another type of show entirely), but the music, the lighting, the conversation - all porn.
The ingredients are piled high on tables - glossy, perfect vegetables, succulent meats, glistening bottles of olive oil - all poised for their performance. The pots and pans are scrubbed to a sheen and the counter tops always glow softly in the studio lighting. Not like my kitchen, where the pots are dented and have scorch marks on the handles and I have to scrape a week's worth of mail off the counter before I can start cooking.
The unreality of porn also translates to the shopping trips. No matter how many items these chefs pile in their little carts, no one ever leaves Whole Foods with more than two re-usable, earth-friendly bags. I can be making dinner for three people and leave the store with bags hanging off my arms, in my teeth, tied to my waist, but these folks can cook dinner for 200 lumberjacks from two dainty bags.
Things get a little more real when the cooking happens - chefs running around, sweating like pigs, chopping, stirring, blending, shouting, etc. That looks more like my cooking life, but with less blood. (I'm kind of a crazy chopper.)
But the real apex (I daren't say climax) comes when the finished product is presented. The food coming out of the kitchen is lovingly plated, with swirls of sauce, dabs of condiments and sprigs of garnish. The descriptions are even more elaborate:
"What I've done here, chefs, is oil-poach the trout in a reduction of balsamic and then fricassee it with a mix of mushrooms for the earthiness - you've got morels, shitake and button mushrooms in there - and that's sitting on top of a red-wine and baby rabbit liver risotto - I butchered that baby rabbit by hand to make sure it was done right - with an infusion of caramel for sweetness and chamomile for freshness. For acidity I've added some speed-zested Meyer lemons with a spritz of crab-apple vinegar. We've got some micro greens dressed in a little pomegranate juice and rabbit fat. To top it off, chiffonade of pineapple and a little mustard green garnish. Oh, and a little aubergine foam."
I never have any idea what the hell they are talking about, but the picture of the plate looks so delicious in its perfection and soft lighting that I can't help but to drool a little. I imagine the flavors, even though I don't know what some of them even taste like. I pretend I'm eating along with Tom, my favorite judge, and that Padma doesn't look nearly as good in person. Watching the show late at night is the worst, though, because you always head into the kitchen afterward, ravenously hungry and with nothing to eat except a high-fiber English muffin and some stale saltines.
The worst part about it is the effect it has on your own life, just like porn. You can never live up to those standards, people. My food never involves foams or mache, just like my sex life doesn't involve breast implants or other women.
But a girl can dream.
ABOUT THE FOOD, PEOPLE.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Taco Hut!
I found out something new about Tony today.
He's a taco maniac! A taco freak! He's loco for tacos!
How, might you ask, did I manage to live with this man for nearly three years and not know about his serious and potentially life-threatening taco addiction ? Well, I knew he liked Mexican food - we go to the Rio Grande restaurant up the street probably three times a month, but when we are there, he ALWAYS gets the Carne Asada. But I'm pretty convinced that's because he can roll his "r's" and just likes to prove it. About every third time we are there, they ask, "Habla Espanol?" because his r roll is so good. Showoff. When I try to roll an R, I sound like I've had a small stroke. Or I'm a pirate with a speech impediment. "Arrrrrrrrrrrggggghhhhh."
Also, I have never cooked tacos for Tony. Actually, I don't think I've ever cooked tacos for anyone. (Frankly, I find it better to just eat my body weight in Nachos Bellgrande at the Taco Bell, but that's another blog.) My mom always made seriously good tacos and burritos when I was growing up. In fact, that was the driving principle behind my Mexican Fiesta 16th birthday party. If I could have found a way to fit Mexican food in with a Pretty Princess 16th birthday party, I would have, but it just seemed counter-intuitive to eat tacos in a prom dress. Or at least expensive, as far as dry cleaning bills are concerned.
Last night, we invited some people over for dinner at the last minute, so I had to punt while I was making my grocery list. I had all the taco seasonings in my spice drawer, two tomatoes on the counter and ground beef was on sale at the Kroger so we arrived at Taco night. I knew it would be an easy meal and thought Tony would probably delicately pick at a taco or two and then call it a night. (80% lean ground chuck typically is not on the "Healthy Food Tony will Eat" list.)
But I was totally wrong. Tony INHALED four tacos and a plate of nachos with all the fixins and only quit when I wrestled the bowl of taco meat out of his greasy orange hands. (The taco meat was tasty, but I didn't think that it was transcendent. Or worthy of a taco binge.) Now, I attributed this mostly to him being excited about having people over or drinking two(!) beers and completely losing control of his appetite.
I was wrong again.
Today for lunch we had leftover tacos (I made three pounds of taco meat, planning to freeze the leftovers for the future. Fat chance of that.) Tony ate two giant plates of nachos with all the fixins and again, I had to put everything away in the fridge to stop him from eating any more. I'm halfway convinced that if I went to the kitchen now, he'd be sitting in front of the fridge, drooling, waiting for dinner (leftover tacos again).
In the midst of the scarfing, I asked him what it was about the tacos he liked so much. (Remember to imagine this conversation through a mouthful of nachos.)
"I just freaking LOVE tacos. Probably one of my favorite meals ever."
"Why didn't you ever tell me to make them? They are super easy and I can whip them up in no time."
"I don't know - I guess I just live with what I'm given."
This last comment was particularly galling, considering I constantly ask him what he wants me to get from the grocery store, what he wants for dinner, if there is anything he's craving, etc. It also makes it sound like I've been feeding him crusts of stale bread and warm water for three years instead of poring over cookbooks and Bon Appetit and Martha Stewart Living and spending whole days whipping up elaborate recipes with exotic ingredients that I've had to source from five different grocery stores in the tri-state. Yeah, he has to live with what he's been given. Poor malnourished baby.
So I've decided that now Taco Night will happen once a month. I'll probably try to find leaner meat and perhaps hone my taco meat recipe a little more than just guessing what spices will taste good in the pot, but I don't plan on deviating too much from the script. Judging by Tony's distended tummy, we've got a winner.
He's a taco maniac! A taco freak! He's loco for tacos!
How, might you ask, did I manage to live with this man for nearly three years and not know about his serious and potentially life-threatening taco addiction ? Well, I knew he liked Mexican food - we go to the Rio Grande restaurant up the street probably three times a month, but when we are there, he ALWAYS gets the Carne Asada. But I'm pretty convinced that's because he can roll his "r's" and just likes to prove it. About every third time we are there, they ask, "Habla Espanol?" because his r roll is so good. Showoff. When I try to roll an R, I sound like I've had a small stroke. Or I'm a pirate with a speech impediment. "Arrrrrrrrrrrggggghhhhh."
Also, I have never cooked tacos for Tony. Actually, I don't think I've ever cooked tacos for anyone. (Frankly, I find it better to just eat my body weight in Nachos Bellgrande at the Taco Bell, but that's another blog.) My mom always made seriously good tacos and burritos when I was growing up. In fact, that was the driving principle behind my Mexican Fiesta 16th birthday party. If I could have found a way to fit Mexican food in with a Pretty Princess 16th birthday party, I would have, but it just seemed counter-intuitive to eat tacos in a prom dress. Or at least expensive, as far as dry cleaning bills are concerned.
Last night, we invited some people over for dinner at the last minute, so I had to punt while I was making my grocery list. I had all the taco seasonings in my spice drawer, two tomatoes on the counter and ground beef was on sale at the Kroger so we arrived at Taco night. I knew it would be an easy meal and thought Tony would probably delicately pick at a taco or two and then call it a night. (80% lean ground chuck typically is not on the "Healthy Food Tony will Eat" list.)
But I was totally wrong. Tony INHALED four tacos and a plate of nachos with all the fixins and only quit when I wrestled the bowl of taco meat out of his greasy orange hands. (The taco meat was tasty, but I didn't think that it was transcendent. Or worthy of a taco binge.) Now, I attributed this mostly to him being excited about having people over or drinking two(!) beers and completely losing control of his appetite.
I was wrong again.
Today for lunch we had leftover tacos (I made three pounds of taco meat, planning to freeze the leftovers for the future. Fat chance of that.) Tony ate two giant plates of nachos with all the fixins and again, I had to put everything away in the fridge to stop him from eating any more. I'm halfway convinced that if I went to the kitchen now, he'd be sitting in front of the fridge, drooling, waiting for dinner (leftover tacos again).
In the midst of the scarfing, I asked him what it was about the tacos he liked so much. (Remember to imagine this conversation through a mouthful of nachos.)
"I just freaking LOVE tacos. Probably one of my favorite meals ever."
"Why didn't you ever tell me to make them? They are super easy and I can whip them up in no time."
"I don't know - I guess I just live with what I'm given."
This last comment was particularly galling, considering I constantly ask him what he wants me to get from the grocery store, what he wants for dinner, if there is anything he's craving, etc. It also makes it sound like I've been feeding him crusts of stale bread and warm water for three years instead of poring over cookbooks and Bon Appetit and Martha Stewart Living and spending whole days whipping up elaborate recipes with exotic ingredients that I've had to source from five different grocery stores in the tri-state. Yeah, he has to live with what he's been given. Poor malnourished baby.
So I've decided that now Taco Night will happen once a month. I'll probably try to find leaner meat and perhaps hone my taco meat recipe a little more than just guessing what spices will taste good in the pot, but I don't plan on deviating too much from the script. Judging by Tony's distended tummy, we've got a winner.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
If you ain't got no money...
So I have $11 in my checking account.
I'm not sure how this happened.
Actually, I know exactly how this happened - the perfect storm of profligate spending followed by a long holiday weekend when I couldn't transfer money from my savings account into my checking account.
See, Tony and I are living off savings right now. Neither of us are working (although we are opening the doors of our new company next month, but more on that later) so we are relying on the money we socked away last year to get us through until someone pulls a paycheck around here.
The way it works is that I pay the bills, balance the checkbook and move as much money as we need from savings to checking as we need it, allowing us to earn the maximum return on our investments while still allowing our checks to clear.
At least that is how it is SUPPOSED to work. This week was a little different. I hadn't balanced the checkbook since before we went to Vegas and we'd spent a lot of money on stupid things, like pants and groceries and pet boarding. We were in Wal-mart on Friday night when our debit card was declined. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have your card declined for the purchase of $16 curtains? Not good.
The worst part was that it was Friday night. I couldn't move any money from the savings account to the checking account until the next business day. Which was today. Thank you, national holiday when all useful institutions are closed but Starbucks stays open to take your money! Four days - make that five days, because the transfer doesn't show up until the morning after you make it - to scramble around, trying to make ends meet.
Things started off okay. We had about $60 in cash left over from our grocery money, which was quickly blown on stupid things like food and the aforementioned curtains. Then, things got desperate. I used up all the sugar on Sunday making pancake syrup from scratch, thereby preventing Tony from making coffee at home. (I can drink black coffee, but it makes Tony's whole face collapse in a profound pucker.) In a bizarre Gifts of the Magi twist, it would have been better financially for me to send Tony to the store to buy pancake syrup than live without sugar for the rest of the weekend, but I digress.
Monday morning - Labor Day for all you who Labor, just another day of nothing for those of us who don't - we took our last $26 to Starbucks and purchased two coffees and two breakfast sandwiches for about five times as much as it would have cost at McD's. (Again, I can drink McD's coffee and eat McD's food without blinking, but Tony requires two showers and a jog after eating trans fats. He's much more dedicated to weight loss than I am. Or at least attached to his food having actual nutrients and stuff.)
The real challenge came when I was whacked with a Chipotle craving that evening. (Tip: Don't read books about food when you have no money and nothing in the fridge. Just bad all around.) We had $11 left, not quite enough for two of their fabulous burritos. So, out came the change jar and the plan. Chicken burritos only, no guac for me and chips and salsa only if we had enough to cover the burritos with plenty to spare. There was even a sub-plan for the chips and salsa. We wouldn't order them until the girl had totaled us up so we would know for sure we could afford them. Tony played this part off marvelously - he pretended he hadn't heard me reject the offer of chips and salsa and I pretended that I didn't know he'd even wanted them. We handed the poor cashier a fistful of singles and quarters and slunk out the door. Did I mention that Chipotle was busier than I'd ever seen them? And that I wasn't wearing any makeup? Humiliation all around.
This morning, Tony got really creative and a bit more frugal. He fished more quarters out of the jar and headed down the road to the UDF (that's a convenience store here in Cincy for my out-of-town readers). I had begged him for a Krispy Kreme before he left and by God, he delivered. Two piping-hot cups of joe and one freshly glazed Krispy Kreme for $3.29. What he didn't get was a fistful of sugar packets for tomorrow morning. Said everyone was staring at him like they knew he was going to steal condiments. I understand that feeling.
The final straw was tonight, though. Tuesday is supposed to be movie day in our house. Movies are only $6 all day at the Florence theater and it is always super-empty, so we can enjoy our movie in peace. I thought we were in the clear - some checks I'd mailed in to the bank had cleared and I'd requested a transfer from savings, so we drove to the ATM light-hearted, sure we'd ended our weekend of abject poverty and ready for the trappings of the middle class again. Popcorn all around!
No such luck. Three ATMs and one phone call to the bank later and we were informed that our account had exactly $11 in it. Oh. It is very hard to seem capable and cosmopolitan when the voice on the other end of the phone says you have less money in your account than your six-year-old cousin gets every week for his allowance.
So, back home again to get the entire change jar and cash it in. But by the time we'd extracted $26.87 from the jug, run it through the Coinstar (total ripoff that it is) and cashed in our little voucher, the movie had already started. Depressed, we ordered as much General Tso's chicken at $16 would get us and headed back home again.
The good news is, we have $9 for breakfast tomorrow. By my estimation, this should get us two coffees and three Krispy Kremes each, with plenty to spare! If the money hasn't shown up by noon, though, we are going to be reduced to eating saltines with peanut butter on them, which I'm pretty sure is unhealthy.
I'm not sure how this happened.
Actually, I know exactly how this happened - the perfect storm of profligate spending followed by a long holiday weekend when I couldn't transfer money from my savings account into my checking account.
See, Tony and I are living off savings right now. Neither of us are working (although we are opening the doors of our new company next month, but more on that later) so we are relying on the money we socked away last year to get us through until someone pulls a paycheck around here.
The way it works is that I pay the bills, balance the checkbook and move as much money as we need from savings to checking as we need it, allowing us to earn the maximum return on our investments while still allowing our checks to clear.
At least that is how it is SUPPOSED to work. This week was a little different. I hadn't balanced the checkbook since before we went to Vegas and we'd spent a lot of money on stupid things, like pants and groceries and pet boarding. We were in Wal-mart on Friday night when our debit card was declined. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have your card declined for the purchase of $16 curtains? Not good.
The worst part was that it was Friday night. I couldn't move any money from the savings account to the checking account until the next business day. Which was today. Thank you, national holiday when all useful institutions are closed but Starbucks stays open to take your money! Four days - make that five days, because the transfer doesn't show up until the morning after you make it - to scramble around, trying to make ends meet.
Things started off okay. We had about $60 in cash left over from our grocery money, which was quickly blown on stupid things like food and the aforementioned curtains. Then, things got desperate. I used up all the sugar on Sunday making pancake syrup from scratch, thereby preventing Tony from making coffee at home. (I can drink black coffee, but it makes Tony's whole face collapse in a profound pucker.) In a bizarre Gifts of the Magi twist, it would have been better financially for me to send Tony to the store to buy pancake syrup than live without sugar for the rest of the weekend, but I digress.
Monday morning - Labor Day for all you who Labor, just another day of nothing for those of us who don't - we took our last $26 to Starbucks and purchased two coffees and two breakfast sandwiches for about five times as much as it would have cost at McD's. (Again, I can drink McD's coffee and eat McD's food without blinking, but Tony requires two showers and a jog after eating trans fats. He's much more dedicated to weight loss than I am. Or at least attached to his food having actual nutrients and stuff.)
The real challenge came when I was whacked with a Chipotle craving that evening. (Tip: Don't read books about food when you have no money and nothing in the fridge. Just bad all around.) We had $11 left, not quite enough for two of their fabulous burritos. So, out came the change jar and the plan. Chicken burritos only, no guac for me and chips and salsa only if we had enough to cover the burritos with plenty to spare. There was even a sub-plan for the chips and salsa. We wouldn't order them until the girl had totaled us up so we would know for sure we could afford them. Tony played this part off marvelously - he pretended he hadn't heard me reject the offer of chips and salsa and I pretended that I didn't know he'd even wanted them. We handed the poor cashier a fistful of singles and quarters and slunk out the door. Did I mention that Chipotle was busier than I'd ever seen them? And that I wasn't wearing any makeup? Humiliation all around.
This morning, Tony got really creative and a bit more frugal. He fished more quarters out of the jar and headed down the road to the UDF (that's a convenience store here in Cincy for my out-of-town readers). I had begged him for a Krispy Kreme before he left and by God, he delivered. Two piping-hot cups of joe and one freshly glazed Krispy Kreme for $3.29. What he didn't get was a fistful of sugar packets for tomorrow morning. Said everyone was staring at him like they knew he was going to steal condiments. I understand that feeling.
The final straw was tonight, though. Tuesday is supposed to be movie day in our house. Movies are only $6 all day at the Florence theater and it is always super-empty, so we can enjoy our movie in peace. I thought we were in the clear - some checks I'd mailed in to the bank had cleared and I'd requested a transfer from savings, so we drove to the ATM light-hearted, sure we'd ended our weekend of abject poverty and ready for the trappings of the middle class again. Popcorn all around!
No such luck. Three ATMs and one phone call to the bank later and we were informed that our account had exactly $11 in it. Oh. It is very hard to seem capable and cosmopolitan when the voice on the other end of the phone says you have less money in your account than your six-year-old cousin gets every week for his allowance.
So, back home again to get the entire change jar and cash it in. But by the time we'd extracted $26.87 from the jug, run it through the Coinstar (total ripoff that it is) and cashed in our little voucher, the movie had already started. Depressed, we ordered as much General Tso's chicken at $16 would get us and headed back home again.
The good news is, we have $9 for breakfast tomorrow. By my estimation, this should get us two coffees and three Krispy Kremes each, with plenty to spare! If the money hasn't shown up by noon, though, we are going to be reduced to eating saltines with peanut butter on them, which I'm pretty sure is unhealthy.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
I hate cleaning
I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but I hate cleaning. HHHHAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTEEEEE it. It is my least favorite thing to do. I'd rather have a tooth drilled while getting a pelvic exam than clean my house. At least then, I'd be lying down.
When we had the condo (all 1200 square feet of it) we had a cleaning service that showed up every other week to scrub all the evidence of our sloth away. I loved cleaning day. I'd walk out of the house in the morning after putting a check under the soap dish in the kitchen and come home that night to a house that smelled so fresh and so clean. And I didn't have to do a thing. Well, I did scramble around the night before tidying up, but I don't call stacking all my paperwork into neat piles "cleaning."
Now that we are in a house that is roughly six times the size of our one-bed, one-bath condo, we are on our own. Until Tony and I are working again, we know that the luxury of a cleaning service is not one we can afford. And it makes me so sad. Today we woke up and realized that it had easily been a month since we'd last cleaned, and it showed. You can't have an acre of dark hardwood floors, a dog who sheds explosively and a husband who tracks in grass clippings ever time he walks in the door and have a house that looks neat more than two or three days, let alone a month. There was no escaping the fact that we were starting to live in our own private third-world country. I could build a new dog with the hair that was trapped under my dining room table alone.
So, after a solid breakfast of pancakes and homemade syrup (I was trying to dull the pain of cleaning), we set to work, scrubbing counter tops, dusting baseboards, sweeping the floor and mopping. Twenty-three hours later, we are finally done.
I guess the problem for me is that I don't enjoy any part of cleaning. I don't enjoy the sense of accomplishment, the sparkly way the house looks or the smell of the cleaning products. I don't like the way it makes my hands feel, or the roar of the vacuum cleaner or the way that the house is dirty again as soon as I let my pet moose, er, dog, back in the door. I know there are people out there who are really good at cleaning, who always have a clean house, who remember to not spray Pledge on the floor where they are going to walk in socks and who really derive a great sense of personal satisfaction from it. To them, I will always say, "Good job!" because it is not easy to clean consistently and keep up with it forever and ever and ever and ever.
For the rest of us, there are choices. You can live in squalor (my personal choice - if I had a dollar for every time my mother told me I might as well be living in a slum in Bangalore, I'd have enough money for a cleaning service now), you can live in semi-squalor (this is where Tony and I have landed), or you can gut it out and clean your house as often as you need to in order to keep it looking decent.
(Let me make a caveat that my kitchen is always clean. I do not allow my counter tops to get disgusting and Tony keeps up with the dishes, so we are really talking more about dust and pet hair on the floor than anything else here. My house is not a toxic waste dump. Just furry.)
All I know is that if you are planning to visit me in the near future, do it now, while the house is clean, or go on ahead and wait until early October, because we are not breaking out the mop again until Beau has made it look like we have wall-to-wall carpet up in this piece.
When we had the condo (all 1200 square feet of it) we had a cleaning service that showed up every other week to scrub all the evidence of our sloth away. I loved cleaning day. I'd walk out of the house in the morning after putting a check under the soap dish in the kitchen and come home that night to a house that smelled so fresh and so clean. And I didn't have to do a thing. Well, I did scramble around the night before tidying up, but I don't call stacking all my paperwork into neat piles "cleaning."
Now that we are in a house that is roughly six times the size of our one-bed, one-bath condo, we are on our own. Until Tony and I are working again, we know that the luxury of a cleaning service is not one we can afford. And it makes me so sad. Today we woke up and realized that it had easily been a month since we'd last cleaned, and it showed. You can't have an acre of dark hardwood floors, a dog who sheds explosively and a husband who tracks in grass clippings ever time he walks in the door and have a house that looks neat more than two or three days, let alone a month. There was no escaping the fact that we were starting to live in our own private third-world country. I could build a new dog with the hair that was trapped under my dining room table alone.
So, after a solid breakfast of pancakes and homemade syrup (I was trying to dull the pain of cleaning), we set to work, scrubbing counter tops, dusting baseboards, sweeping the floor and mopping. Twenty-three hours later, we are finally done.
I guess the problem for me is that I don't enjoy any part of cleaning. I don't enjoy the sense of accomplishment, the sparkly way the house looks or the smell of the cleaning products. I don't like the way it makes my hands feel, or the roar of the vacuum cleaner or the way that the house is dirty again as soon as I let my pet moose, er, dog, back in the door. I know there are people out there who are really good at cleaning, who always have a clean house, who remember to not spray Pledge on the floor where they are going to walk in socks and who really derive a great sense of personal satisfaction from it. To them, I will always say, "Good job!" because it is not easy to clean consistently and keep up with it forever and ever and ever and ever.
For the rest of us, there are choices. You can live in squalor (my personal choice - if I had a dollar for every time my mother told me I might as well be living in a slum in Bangalore, I'd have enough money for a cleaning service now), you can live in semi-squalor (this is where Tony and I have landed), or you can gut it out and clean your house as often as you need to in order to keep it looking decent.
(Let me make a caveat that my kitchen is always clean. I do not allow my counter tops to get disgusting and Tony keeps up with the dishes, so we are really talking more about dust and pet hair on the floor than anything else here. My house is not a toxic waste dump. Just furry.)
All I know is that if you are planning to visit me in the near future, do it now, while the house is clean, or go on ahead and wait until early October, because we are not breaking out the mop again until Beau has made it look like we have wall-to-wall carpet up in this piece.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Do not turn off your computer, updating....
I'm typing today from my newly re-organized office, on my brand-new laptop. I should be very excited by this, but instead I'm fighting the urge to toss the laptop out the window into the lake.
A little back story. I went to journalism school as an undergrad, where we used Macs for all our writing and graphic design work. I loved them, but as soon as I graduated, I went off to business school, which is total PC-land. It took me 10 years to get back to a Mac. Last year, I purchased a bright shiny new iMac with a 20 inch screen, wireless keyboard and mouse. When I got home from the Apple store, I opened the box, plugged one cord into the back of the iMac, and turned on my computer. It worked perfectly then and it still works perfectly now. It has never had a virus, it has never crashed, it has never given me the blue screen of death. I designed more flyers, pamphlets, letters and postcards on that in a year than I can count, and it did a beautiful job on each one. Not to mention writing emails, communicating with my mom on the Webcam and all the other fantastic things I did with it.
But like all good things, this had to come to an end.
Three days ago, I went to Best Buy to get a laptop. Tony and I are actually going to be starting our business, or at least a truncated version of it, much sooner than we thought, and I needed to have a computer that would run Quickbooks and some other software that hasn't been adopted for a Mac. BECAUSE THE WHOLE WORLD CONSPIRES AGAINST ME!
Anyhow, I got this lovely Gateway laptop for the rock-bottom price of $499, which is truly much less than I ever would have paid for any Mac. Now I know why.
For a day and a half, I resisted turning the thing on, feeling like I was betraying my beautiful iMac, which, I might have mentioned, still worked perfectly and had never let me down. Finally last night I cracked open the box, inserted the battery and turned it on. Five and a half hours later, it finally booted up. I had Vista Home already installed, so I went out to the Microsoft site and downloaded the updates. (I knew that even though I just bought my laptop two days before, undoubtedly there were 32 new viruses written by schoolchildren in Nigeria with the specific mission of destroying my laptop. I was right.)
After downloading 39! updates, installing them and restarting the computer, I installed my Office software and then downloaded another 12! updates for Office. And restarted the computer. Then, I installed Quickbooks and then downloaded another 15! updates. AND RESTARTED THE COMPUTER. Do you know how many updates I've downloaded for my iMac in the year and two months I've owned it? NONE!
For six hours last night, my laptop was unusable, busy as it was downloading, installing, restarting, installing, downloading, installing, restarting ad naseum. I sat there the entire time, giving it the finger.
This morning, I woke up with one intent. To get through a day without swearing at my new computer and to accept its limitations and love it nonetheless. That lasted until I booted up, and saw that I had 9 new updates to install.
Obviously, the Nigerian schoolchildren were busy last night.
A little back story. I went to journalism school as an undergrad, where we used Macs for all our writing and graphic design work. I loved them, but as soon as I graduated, I went off to business school, which is total PC-land. It took me 10 years to get back to a Mac. Last year, I purchased a bright shiny new iMac with a 20 inch screen, wireless keyboard and mouse. When I got home from the Apple store, I opened the box, plugged one cord into the back of the iMac, and turned on my computer. It worked perfectly then and it still works perfectly now. It has never had a virus, it has never crashed, it has never given me the blue screen of death. I designed more flyers, pamphlets, letters and postcards on that in a year than I can count, and it did a beautiful job on each one. Not to mention writing emails, communicating with my mom on the Webcam and all the other fantastic things I did with it.
But like all good things, this had to come to an end.
Three days ago, I went to Best Buy to get a laptop. Tony and I are actually going to be starting our business, or at least a truncated version of it, much sooner than we thought, and I needed to have a computer that would run Quickbooks and some other software that hasn't been adopted for a Mac. BECAUSE THE WHOLE WORLD CONSPIRES AGAINST ME!
Anyhow, I got this lovely Gateway laptop for the rock-bottom price of $499, which is truly much less than I ever would have paid for any Mac. Now I know why.
For a day and a half, I resisted turning the thing on, feeling like I was betraying my beautiful iMac, which, I might have mentioned, still worked perfectly and had never let me down. Finally last night I cracked open the box, inserted the battery and turned it on. Five and a half hours later, it finally booted up. I had Vista Home already installed, so I went out to the Microsoft site and downloaded the updates. (I knew that even though I just bought my laptop two days before, undoubtedly there were 32 new viruses written by schoolchildren in Nigeria with the specific mission of destroying my laptop. I was right.)
After downloading 39! updates, installing them and restarting the computer, I installed my Office software and then downloaded another 12! updates for Office. And restarted the computer. Then, I installed Quickbooks and then downloaded another 15! updates. AND RESTARTED THE COMPUTER. Do you know how many updates I've downloaded for my iMac in the year and two months I've owned it? NONE!
For six hours last night, my laptop was unusable, busy as it was downloading, installing, restarting, installing, downloading, installing, restarting ad naseum. I sat there the entire time, giving it the finger.
This morning, I woke up with one intent. To get through a day without swearing at my new computer and to accept its limitations and love it nonetheless. That lasted until I booted up, and saw that I had 9 new updates to install.
Obviously, the Nigerian schoolchildren were busy last night.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Potty Time, Excellent!
I'm a private potty person. I have a shy bladder, I always choose the stall furthest from other people when I'm out and about and for six months, I had my husband (then my boyfriend) convinced I didn't do number 2. (Which was much easier then because we dated long-distance and were only together on the weekends.) I find taking reading material to the bathroom with you utterly disgusting, as one should work with military precision and speed in these situations. If you have long enough to sit and read, you weren't ready to go in there. Tony, on the other hand, would do his business in the middle of the house if I let him, as long as he had a newspaper to read, text messages to send and an iPod to provide music. His potty experiences are multi-media. (Think about that the next time you get a text from him.)
But now, it seems like my private potty time has been invaded. Between Tony and the dogs, if I ever got to pee in peace, I'd fall over from shock. (Thereby peeing on myself as I lay on the floor, but it would totally be worth it.)
At the condo, I could understand. We had only one bathroom and it was the super-highway from the living room into the bedroom. I had to give up a little of my personal space in order to make life continue flowing in the house. However, I still locked the door every time I could, or Sarge would think the reason I was sitting down was to make it easier to hand him his toy so we could play fetch. I do not play fetch and potty at the same time, people.
Again, Tony did things differently. He would open the door on the bathroom so he could watch his news in the morning or evening while using the potty. EVEN IF I WAS ONLY THREE FEET AWAY, TRYING TO WORK ON MY COMPUTER. I do not design flyers and potty at the same time.
In the new house, however, things should be easier. We have five toilets. Four full baths and one powder room. We have toilets that have never been used. (In fact, I should flush that one every once in a while. I can only imagine what's growing in there.) In the master bath, the toilet even has its own little room with a door and a noisy fan and everything. Any person who needs to go in there can do it in absolute privacy.
That never happens. When I first wake up, the dogs trail me wherever I go, and if I don't sprint to the "Throne Room" and slam the door, I'll end up shutting one or both of them in there with me, allowing them to sit and stare at me while I pee. That is unnerving, in case you've never had it happen. Tony, if he has to use the facilities while I shower, will leave the door open on purpose, so he can shout questions at me about whatever it is he's reading. Ever taken a shower while being interrogated by a man on the toilet about broadband speeds in Sweden versus those in Rhode Island? Didn't think so.
(As an aside, when we were in Vegas he literally made me climb over him while he read a newspaper so I could get in the shower. This is when the broadband interrogation occurred. If I hadn't already been drunk, I would have guzzled the mouthwash just to take my mind away.)
Downstairs, if I happen to step into the powder room - it is immediately adjacent to the office where we both work - Tony will do one of two things: Get on a phone call that needs my participation, requiring me to shout from the bathroom to him or give up on ever fully emptying my bladder so I can go back in the other room. I think Thai sweatshop workers even get a five-minute courtesy break. I get NOTHING!
If I go in the bathroom while he's outside, this will prompt him to come in immediately (I want to know where the friggin' sensors are that set off his Lacy's-trying-to-have-some-privacy alarm) and ask me what I'm doing. And let the dogs in so they can see what I'm doing just so he has some visual reconnaissance.
I have a plan, though. Every time I head to the bathroom, I'm going to start casually toward another room of the house, just to decoy him. When he's taken the bait, I'll sprint full-speed to the bathroom, lock the door and turn on the fan so I can't hear him. Not only will I get some privacy, I'll get a little workout at the same time! I better start stretching now. I just had a big glass of water.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Fly mii to the moon....
Because Tony and I are on a budget, we don't have a gym membership right now. We are both guilty of having many gym memberships in the past and never using them, watching that $20 or $30 a month fly out of the checking account while never even thinking about going to the gym, or going half-heartedly for a few weeks and then allowing our gym shoes to gather dust in the corner.
However, in our legally-enforced sabbatical, we have become quite the home-gym rats. We work out between four and five days a week, sometimes twice a day, if perambulations around the neighborhood count as a workout. The upside to this is that I don't have to pay an exorbitant fee to watch my neighbors get gross and sweaty and I don't have to color-coordinate my gym clothes. The downside is that it can get a little boring. At the gym, you have treadmills, stair climbers and five different types of ellipticals, in addition to all the group fitness classes, the weight machines and the tanning bed, which isn't technically an exercise, but does make me sweaty, so I think it should count. The gym is a veritable playground for fitness. An amusement park of sweat. (Well, I guess all amusement parks are sweaty, but hang with me here.)
At home, we have whatever we can cobble together from Amazon.com, Target and Mom's basement. (Thanks for the yoga mats, Mom!) To date, that includes a mini-trampoline, an assortment of free weights, some resistance bands, two yoga mats and a box full of workout DVDs starring a variety of different trainers, rotated depending on who I feel like cursing at that day. My favorite tool, though, is the Wii Fit. I won't bore you with the explanation of what that is - if you don't know, you and Wilson really need to be rescued from that island. Soon. The Wii is my favorite because it isn't that strenuous, the little Mii people are cute, and I get rewarded for working out with that little change-jar thing that tracks how many minutes I've been working out. OOOH, and it tells me to take a break after 40 minutes, which is AWESOME.
Since we've moved into the house, I haven't really used it, though. I've been cycling through P90X, Jillian Michaels, jogging outside, and staring resentfully at my thighs while not working out. (Burns 10 calories an hour.) Today, though, my legs were really hurting (I have IT band issues on both of my legs, which would be laughable if it weren't so damn painful) so I decided I was going to jog on the mini trampoline. Which isn't nearly as fun as it sounds. You don't get to bounce too much, you can't do somersaults and after about five minutes, the squeaking sound makes you insane. To mitigate the frustration and keep myself going, I decided a mash-up of fitness equipment was in order. I strapped on my iPod with a fitness mix queued up, tied on my sneakers, and turned on the Wii, prepared to use the running game to keep track of my time and provide some hi-def scenery to keep me going.
Then I went down to the basement to fetch Tony so he could tell me why the heck the Wii wasn't working when we paid ten bajillion dollars for all this stupid electronic equipment that every time I touched, shut off. (Turns out the Wii wasn't plugged in to the TV. Who knew you had to do that?) After ten minutes of fiddling with my electronics, I was off. Or, rather, up. Jogging in place on the trampoline, listening to OK Go! and some Kanye, with a little Eye of the Tiger mixed in.
As I jogged, I realized that the Wii people could really improve upon their model. I like the free running "game," but there are few things that I would normally encounter on the road that don't exist in Wii-land that I think could be entirely motivational:
1. Savage dogs. Who doesn't get a little burst of speed when you trot gaily past someone's yard, only to feel hot breath and saliva on your heels? It's called interval training, people, and it works.
2. The homeless. Jumping over a guy under a cardboard box gives a little plyometric boost to the old jog, don't you think?
3. Traffic. Frogger had the right idea - running through traffic combines intervals with plyometrics AND a bit of an adrenaline rush. The perfect fitness storm.
4. The ability to body-check fellow Miis. Am I the only one irritated by the Mii running slowly in front of me? One good shoulder check and the rest of the Mii population would know to steer clear.
5. A guy standing along the road with water and petroleum jelly. If I'm running for more than 10 minutes, I want a water break and some help with friction. I'm just saying.
6. This is the most important one - a better way of judging my pace than holding the remote or putting it in my pocket. I don't know if the clothing designers are better in Wii-land but I have yet to find a pair of women's running pants that have a pocket large enough to hold a Wii remote. And there is nothing worse than trying to run with the remote jammed in your underoos. Well, perhaps playing Wii tennis later with a remote that's been jammed in someone's underoos. That might be worse.
So, I'm hoping someone from Nintendo reads my blog and can make these improvements. Until then, I'm in development for some sort of remote-harness that doesn't pull my pants down.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
