Sorry it's been so long....moving!

I'm sitting in the library of my new, ridiculously large home right now, basking in the sunshine and the piped-in music, wondering why my life is suddenly going so well. I'm happy, healthy (if a bit chubby), secure and in a stable relationship. At some point in the next two weeks, it will all implode, I'm sure. But for now, I'm enjoying every minute of it! 

Today, however, I want to talk about classism. I went shopping for house stuff today - trash cans, bath mats, etc. Normally, before I go shopping, I'll make a detailed list of what stores I'm headed to and what I need to get at each one. Today, however, I was feeling frisky, so I just trotted out the front door without a list. Mistake. As soon as I pulled in to the parking lot at Wal-mart, my mind wiped itself clean. I stood in the front of the store, thinking REALLY HARD and not remembering a damn thing I wanted when I made my mental list last night. So I left with razors, haircutting scissors (Tony needs a cheap trim - God help him.) a trash can and some lemon cake mix. At Staples, I actually got what I needed (hanging file folder frames) and at HomeGoods, I tried to fill in the gaps I'd left at Wal-mart with a crate, an ice-cube tray and some window cleaner. I am truly hopeless at remembering things. 

But the most striking part of the day (beyond my completely random disregard for practical things in favor of ice-cube trays and lemon cake mix) was the difference in shoppers at Wal-mart and Home Goods. 

The stores themselves sell remarkably similar things. Of course, HomeGoods doesn't sell tires, but in the areas of inventory overlap, the products are the same, at least on the surface. Glasses, plates, pots, pans, trash cans, sheets, towels, etc.  And HomeGoods ain't exactly Nordstrom - the products are overstock leftovers from other stores, for pete's sake. But in the line at Wal-mart, I stood behind a older gentleman arguing vehemently with the checkout lady (who was, herself, old enough to resemble a dried apricot) about a $.25 coupon for his Chock Full O'Nuts coffee, while the escaped mental patient behind me breathed moistly on the nape of my neck. The store was packed to the gills with the elderly, the oppressed and the harried mothers of 12 seeking discount diapers. 

At HomeGoods, though, I stood sedately in line with other women who looked remarkably like me. I was probably the youngest one there, but not by much. Women in flats, jeans and hooded sweaters bought their deeply discounted trash cans with credit cards fished from the bottom of designer handbags. After we'd checked out, we pushed our carts (or in my case, hauled my crate) out to our new cars, headed off to lunches at home. 

Which brings me to my question - why do we sort ourselves so efficiently into class levels? I paid less at HomeGoods for products that I could have gotten at Wal-mart, so it can't be pricing that keeps us apart. The HomeGoods was half a mile down the road from the Wal-mart, and on the bus line, so it can't be access. Maybe folks like Senior Crazypants the Neck Breather aren't comfortable hanging with my homies - short-haired housewives and stay-at-home moms in their sensible flats and trouser-leg jeans. Maybe my homies don't like Chock Full O'Nuts coffee? All I know is that I continue to feel uncomfortable no matter where I shop and without my list, I'm hopeless. 

Exercise by osmosis

Okay, so it's no secret that I'm trying to lose weight. Or, at least, that I want to lose weight and don't try hard enough to accomplish that. 

So now that I've failed at the last three diets I tried, I'm just bumping along, pretending to be happy that I weigh what I do. And watching a LOT of The Biggest Loser. Who knew it was such riveting television?

Did you know that, like, five channels show The Biggest Loser? I had no idea. When I pulled up my channel guide on the DVR to see how many I could record, I was astounded. (And I recorded all of them, of course.) Yesterday, I watched most of Season 1 - having a DVR means I can condense one hour of television into 15 crackling, suspense-filled minutes - and today, I saw an episode from a more recent season. (I have no idea which one AND they totally ended it in a cliffhanger, damn them!)

I've never been into The Biggest Loser before. I'd heard of it, of course, but never watched an episode. I'd read a couple of breathless "They Lost Half Their Body Weight!" articles in People about it, and I own a Jillian Michaels game for my Wii, but never really got interested in the series. Now I'm hooked. I love watching the transformations - the people shrinking before your very eyes. I love when Jillian gets all excited and her voice starts squeaking and Bob gets mad at someone and then has to have 20 minutes of zen-time to pull himself together while his students console him. What I don't love are man-boobs and big ol' man nipples. There are more man-nipples per minute on that show than on any other, including COPS. And we all know it is a requirement for men being arrested on COPS that you have to be shirtless. Bleah. Seriously, would it add that much weight to have them get on that scale in their little tank tops? The ladies do. 

But now that I weigh more than I ever have and am really struggling with my weight, it gives me an even better reason to watch the show. It doesn't help me lose weight, but watching them work out is strenuous! The sweating, the grunting, Jillian screaming, Bob hugging - I feel like I'm the one at the gym. I can burn vicarious calories without ever leaving the couch! Yay! 

And don't even get me started on Oprah yesterday - Kirstie Alley was on and she's gained back all the weight she lost on Jenny Craig, plus 10 more just to keep the original 75 pounds company. Talk about making me feel better about myself. She was honest, funny and self-deprecating and it made me realize that we all slip up and we just have to keep trying. If only she hadn't done that horrible white manicure that reminded me of all the girls in junior high who painted their nails with White-Out. Bleah times two. 

I think my DVR just clicked into record mode, though, so I'm off to feel the burn. Hug me, Bob. 

Don't mind if I do...

I got my mojo back!

For the last few days, I've been moping around in a funk, not really wanting to do anything. I look at the projects ahead of me and think, "meh" and go back to moping. This kind of funk is normal for most people, I think, when you are in a state of transition. I can't really do anything productive here at the condo, and the new house isn't finished yet, so I'm stuck. I feel like I'm at loose ends for the next two weeks until we move, and then the real work can start. 

Hence, the moping. 

But today, I got up and decided today would be different. After the morning potties, the dogs went in their respective crates and I got on the mini trampoline for a workout. I ran so much with my Wii Fit that I unlocked a whole new running game, which is awesome. After my killer workout (ha!), I decided I wanted a tasty lunch, so I drove up the road to a little cafe and had beef stroganoff while I read a book. And then, I did one of my favorite things. I went to the grocery store and just bought everything that looked tasty. 

I don't do that very often because it can get expensive. (Case in point: I spent $60 today on four bags of groceries that will make maybe two meals.) But, when I do it, it always turns out really well. As we speak, I have a little cake baking in the oven, and I can't wait to frost it when it cools. I found a brand of frosting I didn't even think was manufactured any more. Yay! I bought three kinds of bread, two kinds of cheese, two bottles of red wine, hummus, sliced ham, cornmeal and some apples. I got coffee, tea, milk, sugar and eggs. 

The best part of the day came when I checked out - the adorable little checkout dude carded me! Yay! You see, I'm going to be 29 this year and that seems a lot older than I think I should be, so I'm happy to show my identification any- and everywhere. I even thanked him. 

Tonight, Tony and I are going to have a picnic at the new house, sitting on the floor in one of the rooms, drinking wine, eating apples and bread and cheese and just enjoying the place. Our first meal there will be my favorite, because I honestly believe nothing in the world tastes better than crusty bread, expensive cheese and cheap red wine. I think that combination of foods will be my last meal, if I am lucky enough to know when the end is nigh and to get to sneak in one more nosh. Just to be safe, I try to eat a meal of bread and cheese and wine at least once every two weeks, so I'm never too far from it if I kick the bucket unexpectedly.  

I'm not sure why this day restored my mojo, but I think the combination of exercise, good stroganoff and whimsy shopping had a soothing effect. I may not be able to cook up a huge meal the way I want, but that doesn't mean I have to resign myself to another night of takeout or icky frozen dinners for two. I'm talking to you, Steamfresh. 

I even got enough ingredients to make breakfast for dinner tomorrow night. Breakfast foods eaten for dinner make up my second-favorite meal. Juicy sausages, over-easy eggs, crunchy, buttery toast and fresh cornmeal pancakes drizzled with syrup are infinitely more tasty when eaten at night. For one, I'm not cooking in a just-woken-up haze and for two, it just feels forbidden, like staying in your jammies all day or blowing off the housework to read a really good book. 

I think that's half the charm of all my favorite meals - they are unconventional. While I enjoy a steak or a burger like anyone, the meals I love and choose to eat over and over are a little less predictable. I love a milkshake for lunch on a hot summer day. Just a shake, nothing else - back in the days before we had air conditioning, my mom used to drive Levi and I to the Diary Queen on really hot days for a milkshake lunch. 

I can't resist a dinner of chocolate chip cookies, freshly baked, accompanied by a glass of milk with one ice cube. (The one ice cube keeps the milk extra cold.) 

Hot, buttered toast, any time of the day, is a fantastic meal. (And a remarkable restorative. After every big fight in my family - and there were many - my mom would always make us chocolate milk and buttered toast. I can remember sitting on the countertop in my mom's kitchen, eating toast and drinking milk with Nestle Quik powder in it.) 

And buckwheat pancakes with jam are great for lunch in the summer. I remember making hay on my grandfather's farm when I was five or six and coming into the house to eat lunch with my grandmother. She usually made soup or sandwiches for us, but my favorite days were when she would make buckwheat pancakes for us. She always made them the size of the pan - which I thought was miraculous - and we got to have her homemade preserves on top, along with a big glass of milk. There is no better lunch for an overheated and itchy five-year-old, I'm convinced. 

So, every chance I get, I whip up an unconventional meal to enjoy. I'll eat them by myself, but they are usually better with a co-conspirator. Someone else to giggle with as you break egg yolks and scoop them up with toast at 7 p.m. or sip chocolate malted milkshakes in the summer heat. 

Tonight, it's Tony - he'll be savoring his favorite Emmenthaler cheese while I try some new spanish cheese I found in the ridiculously expensive cheese section of Biggs. I can't wait. 

I could eat a buffet off my own pants.

I made a critical fashion error last night. I left the house looking like a homeless person. I should have known better. Every time I roll the dice and say, "Screw it, I'm just running down here and no one will see me," I end up seeing 42 people I know and at least one person with whom I've applied for a job. Every single time I went home from college and did this, I'd see the people I hated most from high school and would spend the rest of my break carefully coiffing and spit-shining myself so the rumor wouldn't start that I was a crack addict. 

Now, I didn't go full homeless last night - I had showered, my hair was sort of combed and earlier in the day, I'd put on a little makeup, most of which I had napped off by then - but I was definitely rocking some serious homeless-chic clothing. (And, let's be honest, my hair wasn't THAT combed.)

Here's how it happened. Tony took a half-day off yesterday and we were just hanging out. We took a walk downtown, had a gyro, took a nap. About 7:30, we decided to go see the new house. I just walked out the door in what I was wearing - a snappy ensemble of my scrubby jeans and a pirate shirt that used to be Tony's, but shrank too much in the wash for him to wear. It is still huge on me, though. Oh, and my FitFlops. Nothing matched, nothing fit, certainly nothing looked good. 

I figured we'd just walk out the door, get in the car, drive to the house and come home. I should have known better. 

The minute we walked out the door, it was obvious we weren't going anywhere soon. There were fire trucks, ambulances and strangely, an SPCA truck parked in front of our condo parking lot. Seems that a hawk had attacked a person on the street, leaving them both injured and in need of rescue. (I wish I could make this stuff up. I actually watched the hawk be transported off the scene in a cat-carrier.) While we were waiting to get out of the lot, we met two new neighbors and saw some of the people from our building. They, of course, were all wearing cute workout ensembles with shorts that fit and shirts free of bad screen-printing. 

Once we were on the road, I looked in my visor mirror to discover, to my horror, that none of my makeup had survived the nap and my hair looked like I'd slept on it after electrocuting myself. Great. 

At the new house, at least, I could dash from the car into the house and no one would see me, right? Wrong. Everyone was out in their front yards, watching as we drove s-l-o-w-l-y by, allowing them all to have a good, close look at my hair and makeup. Super. At least they couldn't see that I had to cuff my pants because they were too long to wear with the aforementioned FitFlops. 

Since the neighbors all knew now that we were moving from a shelter downtown, I threw caution to the wind and suggested we stop for ice cream. We don't know anyone, really, in Northern Kentucky, so how bad could it be?

Bad. 

At the ice cream shop, we had to wait in line 15 minutes, while cars on the highway slowed down to point and stare at my pirate shirt and crazy hair. Then, when we sat down to eat our cones, everyone got real chatty. I guess they'd never seen a homeless person up close and wanted to see how lucid I was. (Not very, since I came out in THAT outfit.) One guy wanted to know all about my Mini Cooper and another couple was trying to sell us landscaping and custom drapery. WHY WOULD YOU TRY TO SELL ANYTHING TO A WOMAN DRESSED LIKE ME? And Tony wasn't really any better - his shirt had holes in it from the dog chewing it. We looked insane. 

To make matters even worse, while I was talking to the custom-drapery couple, I dripped ice cream all over my jeans, leaving splatters of Chocolate Lovers Trash (I dumpster-dive even at the ice cream shop) up and down my leg. We got back in the car and I sunk low in the passenger seat to avoid more embarrassment.

But God was not on my side. When we got back to the condo, we had to take Beau, our Bouvier, out for his nightly pee. Normally, and I mean 99% of the time, we wouldn't see anyone else out there. Not last night! Oh, no. Three of our neighbors came home all at the same time, two from work and one from a jog, to see me standing the backyard, screaming at my dog, in my ice-cream stained scrubby clothes. 

Oh, the indignity. It's a good thing we are moving because I just can't handle the pity I see in their eyes. 

So funny I forgot to laugh...

Tony turned to me last night and said, "Can I tell you a joke?"

"No."

This wasn't because I was being mean or because I hate jokes. Anyone who knows me knows that I love to laugh and hear jokes, tell funny stories, etc. It's because Tony actually CAN'T tell a joke. He tries, God bless him, but he can't. I think it is because his brain is always focused on 23 things at the same time. The minute he opens his mouth to start the joke, he's well past the punch line and bathing in my raucous laughter and wild applause in his head. 

Therefore, most of his joke-telling goes something like this:

"So this guy walks into a bar and says....umm. Wait, I'll remember it."

It doesn't help, either, that I've heard most of his jokes before (not from him, but from others - his joke sources, whoever they are, are kind of tired). I can finish the punch line for him, but I hate to crush his spirit. He tries so hard. 

Tony is much funnier when he's not trying to be. For instance, in a moment that will forever go down in our family holiday lore, one Thanksgiving we were playing Scene It, that DVD trivia game. Mom, her boyfriend Jack, my brother Levi, Tony and I were grouped around the TV, perspiring furiously. See, in my family, we are all in competition to see who is smarter and more trivia-savvy. Trivial Pursuit is a full-contact sport for us. Scene It is a little different, because it is all about movies, but we still try to be the smartest person in the room, no matter what. Jack, being a sports fanatic, is also fairly competitive and has watched a good many movies in his life, giving him a serious advantage of experience and memory. (Mom has stress-induced amnesia - the minute she needs to remember something, she forgets it.)

Tony, on the other hand, knows nothing about pop culture and isn't afraid to admit that. I don't know if it is because he grew up in a series of second-world countries (I'll be sure to tell you when the divorce papers arrive for that one, but the truth is the truth - Cyprus, Singapore and Saudi Arabia aren't exactly bastions of pop trivia knowledge) without access to western culture, or because he's crammed his brain so full of poorly-told jokes, but he really doesn't know. And don't try to tell me he's been busy educating himself about more important things. Right now, he's blowing up aliens on his X-box. If I want someone to think I'm witty with all my pop-culture references, I'm better off talking to the dogs. And forget any detailed conversations about celebrity scandal. Any conversation about Jennifer Aniston has to start with "you know, that girl who was in 'Friends' and was married to Brad Pitt - the guy who is now married to Angelina Jolie and has six kids? No, not the one with black hair, the other one." It is exhausting. 

So, here we are, screaming at the TV, giving our best, while Tony sits back and offers up absolutely ludicrous answers. At one point, a word clue came up, one of those where the words on the screen have the same meaning as a famous movie title and you have to figure it out. This clue was "Removed by a Breeze" or something similar. The answer was "Gone with the Wind." IT WAS NOT A CHALLENGING QUESTION.

Tony's answer was "Skydiver 4."

What the train of thought leading to this answer was, I'll never know. Notwithstanding the fact that there is NO SUCH MOVIE as "Skydiver 4," why would my dear husband skip the first three movies in this obviously hugely popular imaginary franchise and land at the fourth installment as the obvious answer? I still can't figure that out. 

But we laughed for about an hour, and still laugh about it. And to this day, whenever I don't know an answer in Scene It or life, I guess "Skydiver 4."

The only thing worse than watching Tony struggle through a joke is hanging out with him after we see a stand-up comedian. Tony and I both really enjoy stand-up. I secretly fantasize about a career in stand-up some day (I know, it will never happen, but a girl can dream) and Tony just likes to laugh. But when we are done watching, it starts. He thinks that everything that comes of out his mouth is just as funny as what we just watched. And it's painful. I'll ask him a simple question, like, "Hey babe, what do you want for dinner?" and he'll respond "DEEZ NUTS!" and laugh hysterically. It would be endearing if it weren't so damn irritating. 

Three hours later, we'll be headed for bed and he'll still be at it. "Do you have clean pants for work tomorrow" "DEEZ NUTS" "What time do you need to get up in the morning?" "DEEZ NUTS" and so on. It is enough to make me take a vow of silence. 

Now Tony gets a little touchy when these blogs are about him, so when he asks, let's all just pinky swear we'll answer "DEEZ NUTS!" Thanks. 

Getting...weak...need...bread

Dieting stinks. No, that's not strong enough language. Dieting, especially dieting that involves cutting out all your favorite foods, is worse than having your toenails removed while someone stabs needles into your tear ducts. Yeah, that's about it.

If you can't tell, I've been dieting. FOR A WHOLE WEEK! I'm nearly unconscious with hunger, frustration and crankiness. I don't care what Fitness magazine says, there is no way to cut bad fats, starchy carbs, dairy and sugar from your diet and still have any reason to live. Unless, I guess, you are stronger than I.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I love food. I love talking about food, reading about food, shopping for food, cooking food and my personal favorite, eating food. Until about a year ago, I was okay doing this and still fitting in to my clothes. I wasn't a super model, but I was a reasonable size 4-6. Then, I did a couple of things wrong. I started some medication that lists weight gain as a side effect. And I started spending a lot of time in my car, eating fast food. Some days, I'd have fast food two or three meals. And not grilled chicken sandwiches, either, which I believe are for people who like to punish themselves. I'm more a fan of the high-octane stuff - burgers, fries, chocolate shakes, etc. For one month, I basically lived on chocolate malted milkshakes, the ultimate in portable food. You don't even have to chew!

At then end of about eight months of that routine, I'd put on 20 pounds. Add that to the five or so I gained when I moved in with Tony and started eating something other than Lean Cuisines and Diet Coke for dinner, and I was staring at a number I'd never before seen on the scale. And more depressing, a closet full of clothes I couldn't wear. And if I have room in my heart for a love besides food, it is fashion. And, to add injury to insult, have you ever tried to wear stilettos for 16 hours carrying 25 extra pounds? Not comfortable. I started growing a bunion, for God's sake. I was so fat, I had old lady feet.

And I don't want to hear any equivocating from people about how fat they are compared to me. This isn't a competition, folks, and it isn't about you. It's about me, my tubby butt and my ever-climbing blood sugar numbers. Oh, and my shrinking self-esteem. It is really hard to feel hot with a new muffin top. Or fat rolls. Or walking around in your fat jeans every day. Or, God forbid, buying even fatter jeans so you don't have to walk around in your fat jammies.

So, sick of flab, sick of rolls and really sick of self-recrimination (which only makes you eat more, I find), I decided to get a trainer. For three months, I saw him, working out somewhat diligently three days a week and spending the other four days so sore I could barely walk or shampoo my own hair. (This is where having an assistant with a loose concept of personal space comes in handy - just have her wash your hair. Save your arm strength for lifting the fork.) I lunged, squatted, curled, pressed and grunted through every workout. Sweat ran from my forehead and puddled in my sports bra. Breakfasts heaved from my stomach and into the toilet bowl during killer cardio sessions. I cried several times from the strain and my own frustration at my body not being able to do the things it used to do with ease. I even held off weighing myself (something I used to do every day, if just to torture myself) so I could see massive improvement and stay motivated.

When weigh-in day came, I had gained two pounds.

Spare me chatter about muscle weighing more than fat, etc. I'm not an East German power-lifter. I don't put on muscle that fast. The only thing I put on that fast is fat. I won't detail the horrible things I said to myself on the way home from the gym that day, but suffice it say it was negative. I said things to myself I wouldn't say to someone I really hated. And isn't that sad - I'm a great, smart, funny, interesting and still pretty attractive person, but the number on the scale can negate all of that. It reduces me to a single accomplishment.

So, if the training wasn't working, it must be my diet. Sigh. I hate going on diets. I am a stubborn person who really hates being told what to do, even by myself, and diets play on that part of my personality. But, it had to be done. My weight had pretty much stabilized at an astoundingly high number, but I really wanted to lose some weight. Especially if Tony and I were planning on getting pregnant. It is always easier to stay in good shape when you are pregnant if you are in good shape to begin with. So, a diet it was.

Tony first suggested this protein-shake plan, where you drink five shakes a day and take some fiber supplements and that's that. We ordered all the hideously expensive shakes and supplements and cleared our cupboards of any real food. (We are packing to move anyhow, so it served two purposes to box it all up.) I even packed the salt and pepper. We wouldn't need any of it - this diet lasts 28 days and you only eat 4 solid meals the whole time, so we could go out for those meals. We started the plan on a Wednesday morning, weighing in, measuring each other and taking truly brutal "before" pictures. We were going to do this! We were going to lose 20 pounds in a month! We were going to be hot, sexy beach-people by May 14th!

We lasted three days before ordering Chinese.

The shakes tasted terrible. I don't eat artificial sweeteners because I can't stand the taste, and the low-carb, sugar-free protein powders were packed with them. I honestly think they were made with artificially sweetened dehydrated alfalfa mixed with the powdered carcasses of thos bugs Survivorman eats on his show. (That guy eats some seriously awful stuff, but he's always talking about how it is packed with protein, just like those shakes.) Whatever it was, it tasted awful. And when we had to add the ground flaxseed, it got even worse - it was chewy and awful. The only way I could choke it down was to use a straw and stick the it as far back into my mouth as I could without gagging. I basically constructed a feeding tube for myself. If I could have rigged it up to never touch the inside of my mouth, I would have. The one highlight of the day was the tablespoon of all-natural unsweetened peanut butter we got in our last shake. By the end of the second day, I was sobbing. At the end of the third day, Tony was sobbing.

When I called the company that manufactures the diet stuff, I told them I was pregnant and couldn't do the diet anymore. I didn't have the heart to tell them their product tasted like dead things. Powdered dead things.

Without the structure of the five shakes a day, we had a few options. We could just go back to our old way of eating, try to work something out on our own, or we had another diet plan that I had ordered - at one-tenth the cost of the original one - that involved one drink a day and two meals without starchy carbs, high-fat food, dairy or added sugars. We tried that.

So far, it has been okay. I get hungry all the time and I crave bread and cheese (my two favorite foods) like crazy, but so far, I haven't had to insert a feeding tube or order Chinese. Last night, we had a moment and devoured a pan of brownies, but the damage on the scale was negligible for me. Tony even still lost a pound. We've lost between five and six pounds each, which is great. The biggest issue is being cranky from being hungry. That, coupled with the new puppy, has given us some fodder for our counseling session tonight, I'm sure.

I'm not sure how long we'll keep on this plan, but I'd really like to see a number on the scale closer to the one I saw a year ago. And I'd REALLY like to not have to buy a new fat summer wardrobe. I'm a fifth of the way there already, so I guess I can keep this up for five or six more weeks. Not eating carbs doesn't even bother me that much.

Oh, who am I kidding? I want a grilled cheese sandwich and a brownie sundae, stat!

Alert Level Orange

This new puppy is refocusing my definition of readiness. This morning, instead of crawling out of bed into my bathrobe (or, more specifically, Tony's bathrobe), I leaped from my warm sheets into an outfit suitable for taking puppies to the parking lot. A not fashionable, but functional ensemble of warm-up pants and bulky sweatshirt to combat the Ohio April morning chill. Sure enough, as Tony was leaving, we had to make our third potty exit of the day. Thank God it wasn't raining this time.

When we got back in the house, I took advantage of the 30 minutes or so I had until the next potty run to dash through a quick shower. First, though, I had to coax a roiling mass of dog flesh into the bathroom with me. (Sarge and Beauregard have been "playing" with a rope toy. Sarge steals it, Beau chases him, there is much snarling from Sarge, it's ugly. And you better not be standing in the way of either of them. Sarge can't bowl you over, but Beau sure can. I can't wait until he weighs 120 pounds. This is going to be awesome!) Once the dogs were safely shut in the bathroom with me, I showered with one eye open, to the soothing sounds of thrashing and snarling outside the steamy shower door. Seriously, I thought I was at the spa. But, I figure even if Beau pees in there, at least it is on tile instead of hardwood or slate.

***We now return to this blog after our regularly-unscheduled potty break, preceded by Beau starting to pee on the floor, after which I grabbed him, ran outside in the cold and waited 10 minutes for him to...do nothing. My toes are going to freeze off.***

I sprang from the shower, moisturized in record time, jammed my legs into some jeans, pulled on a tank and a hoodie and reported back to puppy-patrol. Out in the kitchen, I stuffed dog-treats of various sizes and states of decomposition into my jeans pockets (God knows how long my pants are going to smell like Beefy Grill Bites. I'm expecting neighborhood dogs to chase me long into my 30's.) I put plastic bags and house keys in my sweatshirt pockets because there is nothing worse than trying to grab all that when you are simultaneously hoisting a 25-pound pile of limp dog into your arms and trying to open a door, with another, smaller, infinitely more savage dog attached to your leg, desperately trying to dash out the door the first time you look the other way. And I keep my flipflops on constantly, just in case we have a pee-mergency.

In my one-dog days, I used to lounge around the house, balancing the checkbook and writing in my robe until about 10, at which point I'd take a leisurely shower and spend about 30 minutes on my hair and makeup. Those were the days. Now, I'm lucky to get my wet hair pinned back before I have to dash outside in the cold. Forget makeup. Today I'm counting on doing it when Tony gets home from work at noon, since he has a half-day vacation.

This is, I think, preparing me for motherhood. Everyone keeps saying that, so I guess I'll believe them. I don't think I've ever appreciated diapers more than in the past three days. If only the doggy could wear them, it would be so much easier. I could just change him whenever he squats on my fireplace hearth or hardwood floors.

But for now, I'm going to try to sneak in a few loads of laundry, get feeling back to my icicle toes and dig broken bits of puppy treat out of my pockets. Don't want my washer smelling like Beefy Grill Bites.