About a year ago I moved to upstate New York. Since then, I have been attempting to make some new friends. Many of you may think, what is the big deal about that? How hard could that be? Well it is harder than you may think. After several months of repeating self-affirmations like "boy PITA you are really fun and smart." I have made a few friends. One of my friends enjoys working out together. I am all for that, seeing that I am usually not that motivated to go by myself, this is ideal for me. We surveyed the classes and discussed which ones we would be interested in. Now, please keep in mind, I am trying to keep these new friendships going, so I happily agreed when she stated she would like to attend "Power Step." The thing about it is that I hate Step, I hate the Stepper, I hate all parts of this workout. But, since I had chose Power Pump the other day, I thought I should compromise.....
So I show up to class that fateful day and meet our instructor, Angel. You are all probably thinking, I bet Angel is really nice. With a name like Angel, how could you not be? In my opinion, Angel stinks. She demands that we put three risers on each side (that is a lot, if you are not familiar with step), let me note that Angel put no risers under her step. Secondly, she jumps into the routine, knowing she had new people in the class. Also, the moves in step class all have names - v-step, a-step, charleston, charleston-ski, etc... I knew no terms nor the moves for that matter. Much of the class was spent standing watching others until I could master the moves. I tried to keep moving as best I could, but Angel instead of doing the moves with us, would circle around and clap and scream as "encouragement." I was finally feeling a little settled, when we did a tricky move - and l-step into a football shuffle back and forth over the step. Well I go up for my l-step, clear it no problem, but as I hopped over the step for the football shuffle, my foot got caught and I went down. Boy did I take a digger. I sat there for a moment as everyone stared at me, trying to laugh it off, but I kind of wanted to cry because it kind of hurt. Nonetheless, I got up. Angel just kept going, she said - oh did you turn your ankle? I shook my head no as i cursed her mentally for being such an idiot and for choosing such a difficult move for a novice. Lucky for me, this incident happened right before the cool-down. I put my six risers away and walked away...
I have gone back (re: I need friends), but one slight improvement - Angel has been reassigned to cardio kickboxing and stroller fit. NTB, but I will show her an l-step.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Clear the steps, damn it.
TB or NTB. I fear my recent posts have bordered on the former. Just to keep things real, I will share a brief bub-related incident from earlier this evening. The bub and I spent the hour before dinner hanging out in our carpeted basement. We did some laundry. I folded the clothes. He threw them around. I loaded the dryer. He closed the dryer door six or seven times in the process. We read the books I purchased at our parish's toddler garage sale this weekend. "We" played with the cords that (used to) connect the VCR to the television. We picked up the phone and shot the breeze with Grammy.
As I headed up the stairs to start preparing bubby's dinner, I assumed he was right behind me. Because he sometimes takes his time climbing the steps, I went on in to the kitchen and got to work. I didn't hear much, but falsely assumed that all was well and that he had merely paused, as he often does, at the landing where his stroller is parked to try to fasten and unfasten its buckles.
I don't know how you use your stairs, but in addition to using mine for the obvious, I also use them as temporary holding zones. Items that need to travel either upstairs or downstairs wait on the steps until I pause to take them to their homes. My mom employed a similar system when I was growing up. She placed clean and folded laundry in stacks on our back stairs. When you headed up to your room, you were supposed to take your stack with you (and, of course, put it away). For being good kids, my siblings and I were horrible with the laundry stacks. Mostly, we stepped around them. I have distinct memories of heading downstairs in the morning before school and grabbing one item--a pair of socks or a clean bra, for example--and then heading upstairs and leaving another two feet of MEP laundry behind. My mom certainly deserves your sympathy for having to put up with ingrates like myself. Funny thing is, my stair-clearing efforts have not improved much even now that I have my own home and family. On the landing right outside my bedroom sits my opened and semi-unpacked suitcase (now serving as remote drawer) from last weekend and the pile of stuff I tossed out of it from its previous use a month prior. A variety of laundry baskets, piles of clothes, and empty shopping bags wait on the landing as well. The area could easily be mistaken for a Goodwill donation center. But, if not for this large landing, my steps would be in even worse shape. A dirty but folded pair of jeans and a pillow sham have been sitting on my steps heading upstairs for ten days. A 145 ounce container of laundry detergent had been sitting on the steps leading to the basement since this morning, when I purchased it from Target.
That's right, the detergent had been there. It had been there until the bub moved it. As I was happily getting his dinner together, I noted with pleasure that the bub seemed to have found a way to keep himself occupied. Seconds later, I heard his familiar, "Mom. Mom." I turned the corner and saw that my freakishly strong bub had lifted the laundry detergent up two stairs so that it was in our back room. He had also figured out how to open the bottle. What's more, he had poured it (thankfully, not all 145 ounces of it) all over the floor. A puddle at least a foot and a half in diameter greeted me. On his clothes alone, the bub had poured enough for an entire load. The smell of spring rain filled the air. The bub looked up at me with a huge smile as if to say, "Look what I did mom. NTB."
Thanks to all the code browns, my emergency reaction skills are fairly sharp. NTB. I removed the bub's detergent-soaked clothes. (He helped me out by then removing his diaper.) I wet a wad of paper towels and got to work rinsing off his hands and feet (yes, of course he had been stepping in the puddle). I placed him on the carpet and bid him not to move. I returned to the scene with more paper towels and began mopping up the puddle. The bub wanted in on the action. He grabbed some paper towels, got down on his knees, and started spreading the soap around. I then had to pause and re-rinse his newly-soaped hands and feet. Keep in mind, he has no diaper on. Luckily for me, he kept himself entertained by riding his bouncing zebra bareback (and bare-butt) while I finished the clean-up.* We visited the sink for one final rinse. I wrestled him into a diaper and, wearing only said diaper, he ate his dinner like a champ.
The first thing I did after I put him to bed tonight? Carried that bottle of detergent downstairs to the laundry room. NTB. What's on your steps?
*Note to bub's friends and their moms--the zebra has been sanitized.
As I headed up the stairs to start preparing bubby's dinner, I assumed he was right behind me. Because he sometimes takes his time climbing the steps, I went on in to the kitchen and got to work. I didn't hear much, but falsely assumed that all was well and that he had merely paused, as he often does, at the landing where his stroller is parked to try to fasten and unfasten its buckles.
I don't know how you use your stairs, but in addition to using mine for the obvious, I also use them as temporary holding zones. Items that need to travel either upstairs or downstairs wait on the steps until I pause to take them to their homes. My mom employed a similar system when I was growing up. She placed clean and folded laundry in stacks on our back stairs. When you headed up to your room, you were supposed to take your stack with you (and, of course, put it away). For being good kids, my siblings and I were horrible with the laundry stacks. Mostly, we stepped around them. I have distinct memories of heading downstairs in the morning before school and grabbing one item--a pair of socks or a clean bra, for example--and then heading upstairs and leaving another two feet of MEP laundry behind. My mom certainly deserves your sympathy for having to put up with ingrates like myself. Funny thing is, my stair-clearing efforts have not improved much even now that I have my own home and family. On the landing right outside my bedroom sits my opened and semi-unpacked suitcase (now serving as remote drawer) from last weekend and the pile of stuff I tossed out of it from its previous use a month prior. A variety of laundry baskets, piles of clothes, and empty shopping bags wait on the landing as well. The area could easily be mistaken for a Goodwill donation center. But, if not for this large landing, my steps would be in even worse shape. A dirty but folded pair of jeans and a pillow sham have been sitting on my steps heading upstairs for ten days. A 145 ounce container of laundry detergent had been sitting on the steps leading to the basement since this morning, when I purchased it from Target.
That's right, the detergent had been there. It had been there until the bub moved it. As I was happily getting his dinner together, I noted with pleasure that the bub seemed to have found a way to keep himself occupied. Seconds later, I heard his familiar, "Mom. Mom." I turned the corner and saw that my freakishly strong bub had lifted the laundry detergent up two stairs so that it was in our back room. He had also figured out how to open the bottle. What's more, he had poured it (thankfully, not all 145 ounces of it) all over the floor. A puddle at least a foot and a half in diameter greeted me. On his clothes alone, the bub had poured enough for an entire load. The smell of spring rain filled the air. The bub looked up at me with a huge smile as if to say, "Look what I did mom. NTB."
Thanks to all the code browns, my emergency reaction skills are fairly sharp. NTB. I removed the bub's detergent-soaked clothes. (He helped me out by then removing his diaper.) I wet a wad of paper towels and got to work rinsing off his hands and feet (yes, of course he had been stepping in the puddle). I placed him on the carpet and bid him not to move. I returned to the scene with more paper towels and began mopping up the puddle. The bub wanted in on the action. He grabbed some paper towels, got down on his knees, and started spreading the soap around. I then had to pause and re-rinse his newly-soaped hands and feet. Keep in mind, he has no diaper on. Luckily for me, he kept himself entertained by riding his bouncing zebra bareback (and bare-butt) while I finished the clean-up.* We visited the sink for one final rinse. I wrestled him into a diaper and, wearing only said diaper, he ate his dinner like a champ.
The first thing I did after I put him to bed tonight? Carried that bottle of detergent downstairs to the laundry room. NTB. What's on your steps?
*Note to bub's friends and their moms--the zebra has been sanitized.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
At least our fans are cute . . .
Several years ago, the hubby and I traveled to lovely Jacksonville, Florida to watch the Irish play NC State. It began raining buckets on New Year's Eve just as we were heading out to dinner with our friends. The next day, the Irish lost the game. The highlight of the weekend was our scoring a prime table at Hooters and then not relinquishing it for the six hours following the game. NTB. At one point, a member of our party left to use the facilities. When she returned, she was disgruntled. In the bathroom, an NC State fan had seen her ND sportswear and remarked, "At least y'all have a really great band." My guess is that the woman merely intended to be friendly. When the exchange was related, however, we assumed that the NC state fan was patronizing us. And we--with our prime table, bottomless wing basket, and eleven national championships--did not need her pity.
Clearly, the Irish are struggling this year. I will continue cheering for them. I will continue supporting the players and Coach Weis. I will continue optimistically believing that we have a fighting chance each weekend. Things will get better. They always do. Until then, I submit, in a non-patronizing way, this photo as my personal highlight of the football season.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Eau de Outside
Today's weather was perfect, sometimes sunny and sometimes not, with an ideal moderate temperature and an awesome breeze. NTB, but my bub was nearly perfect today too. We had gymnastics this morning and, come circle time, he reported to the center of the gym and sat right down, no coaxing necessary. He did his stretches. He clapped along to the songs. He touched his knees and toes as directed. Sure, he would periodically hover right over the instructor's boom box, but he did so without adjusting the volume, turning it off, or falling into it. When the time came for actual gymnastics, he did the bearwalk for three whole feet. It was a pleasure. For once in a large group setting involving me and the bub, I did not break a sweat.
After a respectable nap, we met my cousin at the park. The good behavior continued. There were several attractive ride-on toys that did not belong to him at the park and, of course, he really wanted to ride on them. This past Sunday at our neighborhood's "alley party," the bub faced a similar situation and, much to the chagrin of me and the hubby, dealt with it by hitting another toddler in the face in an attempt to take the driver's seat. (We apologized profusely and then headed inside in shame). But today, the bub showed no signs of violence. He was able to content himself with pushing a little girl's car-thing as she drove and, later on, to have his attention diverted to both a wagon and a Hippo. Blessed are the peacemakers. NTB.
Arriving home from our walk back from the park, I noticed a familiar scent while taking the bub out of his stroller. I sniffed a couple of times before I placed the scent. He smelled like the outside. When I was an adolescent, there were few crimes that got to me more than that of sporting eau de outside. Often at family dinners, I would look with disgust at my younger-but-not-youngest brother (who turned 29 today, by the way) and protest, "You smell like the outside." He earned that scent by being a good old fashioned kid--riding his bike and playing endless games of baseball, football, basketball, soccer, H-O-R-S-E, and etc. with the kids in the neighborhood. Sure, I sometimes played outside, but I didn't have that much spare time, what with the Babysitters Club novels I needed to read, the Kate and Allie reruns I needed to watch, the imaginary students I needed to teach in my basement classroom, and, as I got older, the junior high history tests I needed to give myself ulcers over. Perhaps that outside smell was just especially repugnant (ninth grade vocab. word) to me because I had not been outside myself.
So anyway, we got home today and I realized that my bubby smelled like the outside. I guess I don't need to tell you that I didn't mind one bit. It was a great day to be his mom. It was a great day to be outside. And, at the risk of getting too sentimental, I'll say that it was also a great day to be alive. NTB.
After a respectable nap, we met my cousin at the park. The good behavior continued. There were several attractive ride-on toys that did not belong to him at the park and, of course, he really wanted to ride on them. This past Sunday at our neighborhood's "alley party," the bub faced a similar situation and, much to the chagrin of me and the hubby, dealt with it by hitting another toddler in the face in an attempt to take the driver's seat. (We apologized profusely and then headed inside in shame). But today, the bub showed no signs of violence. He was able to content himself with pushing a little girl's car-thing as she drove and, later on, to have his attention diverted to both a wagon and a Hippo. Blessed are the peacemakers. NTB.
Arriving home from our walk back from the park, I noticed a familiar scent while taking the bub out of his stroller. I sniffed a couple of times before I placed the scent. He smelled like the outside. When I was an adolescent, there were few crimes that got to me more than that of sporting eau de outside. Often at family dinners, I would look with disgust at my younger-but-not-youngest brother (who turned 29 today, by the way) and protest, "You smell like the outside." He earned that scent by being a good old fashioned kid--riding his bike and playing endless games of baseball, football, basketball, soccer, H-O-R-S-E, and etc. with the kids in the neighborhood. Sure, I sometimes played outside, but I didn't have that much spare time, what with the Babysitters Club novels I needed to read, the Kate and Allie reruns I needed to watch, the imaginary students I needed to teach in my basement classroom, and, as I got older, the junior high history tests I needed to give myself ulcers over. Perhaps that outside smell was just especially repugnant (ninth grade vocab. word) to me because I had not been outside myself.
So anyway, we got home today and I realized that my bubby smelled like the outside. I guess I don't need to tell you that I didn't mind one bit. It was a great day to be his mom. It was a great day to be outside. And, at the risk of getting too sentimental, I'll say that it was also a great day to be alive. NTB.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Soup's still on
I recently discussed my decision to temporarily confine my culinary aspirations to the realm of soup. Motivated by my success with Rachael's Indian Summer Turkey Chili, I decided to attempt another seasonal soup: Pumpkin Orange Soup With Parmesan Toasts. I enjoy pumpkin as an ingredient (except in pumpkin pie) and I like oranges. I did not, however, like the soup. The recipe came from one of Ann Byrne's cookbooks, The Dinner Doctor. I'm not blaming her. The recipe was easy to fall and likely has potential, but I made one major mistake. I decided that the Parmesan Toasts were not necessary and thus eliminated several things I really enjoy in a meal: fat in the form of cheese, carbs, and texture. The flavor of the soup was fine, but it was too smooth for me. I like chunks and such. I should not have let my inexplicable resistance to recipes requiring the broiler prevent me from making the parmesan toasts. I would give you the hubby's reaction, but believe me, if he had actually tried the soup, his response would be unprintable.
This morning, I stepped back into the ring with Chicken Mulligatawny soup from Eating Well magazine. This recipe is one I noticed months ago and have wanted to try ever since. I just liked the sound of chicken, rice, granny smith apples, onions, and coconut milk together in one bowl. I liked the sound of this soup so much that I took the time, with the bub in tow no less, to figure out where coconut milk* is found (in the Hispanic ethnic aisle with the Goya products) and to attempt to find hot Madras curry powder (was unsuccessful and just used regular curry powder, probably for the best as I don't like things too spicy). I was never able to find the ground coriander the recipe called for. Perhaps it is not sold already-ground? I found some un-ground coriander and did my best to "grind" it by placing it in a ziploc and pounding on it with my mallet. Bubby helped and, fortunately, both of our fingers are still intact. I will be honest and admit that I did not toast almonds for a garnish as instructed (though I did purchase said almonds) because as with recipes involving the broiler and, until recently, the food processor, I avoid those that require toasting nuts (NTB?) due to the the horrors I tasted after burning a batch a few years back. Anyway, the end result was favorable. I enjoyed the flavors and am especially tickled by having Granny Smith apples in a soup. I would have preferred the broth to be a bit thicker, but that could have been my error. If I had it to make over, I would do it without the bub as my sous chef. By the time the soup was ready, the floor was covered with Goldfish crackers (awesome crunch with every step) and two bananas had been mangled with a toy knife at bub's work station. More than anything, I am just proud that I finally tried a recipe from Eating Well, as the magazine's recipes almost always appeal to me but almost always intimidate me as well. So, I did it and it was good. NTB.
*Recipe actually called for "lite" coconut milk, no idea where that might be secured.
This morning, I stepped back into the ring with Chicken Mulligatawny soup from Eating Well magazine. This recipe is one I noticed months ago and have wanted to try ever since. I just liked the sound of chicken, rice, granny smith apples, onions, and coconut milk together in one bowl. I liked the sound of this soup so much that I took the time, with the bub in tow no less, to figure out where coconut milk* is found (in the Hispanic ethnic aisle with the Goya products) and to attempt to find hot Madras curry powder (was unsuccessful and just used regular curry powder, probably for the best as I don't like things too spicy). I was never able to find the ground coriander the recipe called for. Perhaps it is not sold already-ground? I found some un-ground coriander and did my best to "grind" it by placing it in a ziploc and pounding on it with my mallet. Bubby helped and, fortunately, both of our fingers are still intact. I will be honest and admit that I did not toast almonds for a garnish as instructed (though I did purchase said almonds) because as with recipes involving the broiler and, until recently, the food processor, I avoid those that require toasting nuts (NTB?) due to the the horrors I tasted after burning a batch a few years back. Anyway, the end result was favorable. I enjoyed the flavors and am especially tickled by having Granny Smith apples in a soup. I would have preferred the broth to be a bit thicker, but that could have been my error. If I had it to make over, I would do it without the bub as my sous chef. By the time the soup was ready, the floor was covered with Goldfish crackers (awesome crunch with every step) and two bananas had been mangled with a toy knife at bub's work station. More than anything, I am just proud that I finally tried a recipe from Eating Well, as the magazine's recipes almost always appeal to me but almost always intimidate me as well. So, I did it and it was good. NTB.
*Recipe actually called for "lite" coconut milk, no idea where that might be secured.
Take that social calendar
My husband and I have found that since we no longer work with people our age—nor do we live in a neighborhood where the majority of dwellers are at the Pampers-purchasing stage of life, nor do many of our close friends live within a quick 15 minute drive—we need to become more proactive with our social lives.
NTB, but we were pretty proud of ourselves this weekend. Eat your heart out, but our weekend was action packed. Although no one event is likely to draw the envy of any reader, this volume of activity is rare for us these days:
Friday morning: Got a jump start on the weekend by heading with my two little girls to the aquarium. They were angels. They held my hands as we walked through and didn’t even throw a tantrum when I denied them a purchase in the gift shop.
Friday evening: Family trip to the pumpkin patch complete with obligatory festive fall photo shoot.
Saturday morning: Trick or treating at the zoo in full Halloween attire. As a special bonus, there was a ten-minute period where both kids stayed seated in the double stroller at the same time.
Saturday evening: Babysitter for kids, nice dinner out and then party at a neighbor’s house. As noted above, most neighbors are in different life stages, case in point, this was a 25th anniversary/50th birthday party…we’re 20 years behind on both. It was an enjoyable evening except for the fact that people kept hugging me, saying they were surprised to see me since my father had just died. WHAT? Although I knew my father was safely vacationing in Arizona, it was very unnerving. We were able to confirm that the telephone message gone awry had indicated that the 92-year-old father of my next door neighbor is actually the one who passed away.
Sunday afternoon: I attended a baby shower for a former co-worker/current friend. Although I am not big into games such as “try to putt the golf ball into a sippy cup” or baby-themed pictionary, it was a nice little outing.
Sunday evening: Family gathering at a relative’s house in celebration of my husband’s great aunt turning 87. Party started at 3, dinner at 4:30, we were last to leave at 7:30. Case in point that we are truly party animals who should be invited to more events.
NTB, but we were pretty proud of ourselves this weekend. Eat your heart out, but our weekend was action packed. Although no one event is likely to draw the envy of any reader, this volume of activity is rare for us these days:
Friday morning: Got a jump start on the weekend by heading with my two little girls to the aquarium. They were angels. They held my hands as we walked through and didn’t even throw a tantrum when I denied them a purchase in the gift shop.
Friday evening: Family trip to the pumpkin patch complete with obligatory festive fall photo shoot.
Saturday morning: Trick or treating at the zoo in full Halloween attire. As a special bonus, there was a ten-minute period where both kids stayed seated in the double stroller at the same time.
Saturday evening: Babysitter for kids, nice dinner out and then party at a neighbor’s house. As noted above, most neighbors are in different life stages, case in point, this was a 25th anniversary/50th birthday party…we’re 20 years behind on both. It was an enjoyable evening except for the fact that people kept hugging me, saying they were surprised to see me since my father had just died. WHAT? Although I knew my father was safely vacationing in Arizona, it was very unnerving. We were able to confirm that the telephone message gone awry had indicated that the 92-year-old father of my next door neighbor is actually the one who passed away.
Sunday afternoon: I attended a baby shower for a former co-worker/current friend. Although I am not big into games such as “try to putt the golf ball into a sippy cup” or baby-themed pictionary, it was a nice little outing.
Sunday evening: Family gathering at a relative’s house in celebration of my husband’s great aunt turning 87. Party started at 3, dinner at 4:30, we were last to leave at 7:30. Case in point that we are truly party animals who should be invited to more events.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Here and now . . . really?
This anecdote is inspired from the fact that I will be at the airport tomorrow, and it will be brief because I have packing to do. Now, although I do not sit on the airport floor with my boarding group in order to nab a "great seat," I do board at my earliest opportunity. I like to get settled, arrange my in-flight reading material in the pocket in front of me, and find a space in the overhead for my wadded-up jacket. If I've purchased a snack at the gate, I like to get it staged and ready to savor. I also like to sit in judgment of those who place their rollies sideways in the overhead bin and the men who try to claim an entire bin for their suit jackets. I enjoy watching the flight attendants expertly rearranging items and clacking the bins shut.
Inspired by yesterday's code brown post, I would like to share a little story. About six or seven years ago, I was taking a flight from Cincinnati to Chicago to see the hubby (before he was the hubby). I boarded early--probably 25 minutes before the door was going to close--for all the reasons listed above. In fact, only one person boarded ahead of me. Here is what he did: He raced directly to the lavatory in the back of the plane. From my typically crappy-status-middle-toward-the-back seat, I could hear and, soon after, smell the intestinal distress transpiring in that lavatory. Five minutes later, he exited without a trace of embarrassment and took his seat. As the plane filled, every other passenger could smell it and boy did it linger. I was trying to make cringy-faced expressions and eye contact to indicate, "Wasn't me." NTB. Earlier, when the action was still audible, a flight attendant and I had exchanged a single, horrified glance. Six or seven years later, I remember this incident. What I'm still trying to work out is why, with plenty of time to spare, this man chose to do his business in the airplane lavatory and not in the gate area where he could have chosen a larger stall with better ventilation and a potentially smaller and more transient audience. Yes, I know sometimes these things can catch you off guard, but the way he hustled to the back of the plane, it was as if he had been waiting to use that lavatory.
Inspired by yesterday's code brown post, I would like to share a little story. About six or seven years ago, I was taking a flight from Cincinnati to Chicago to see the hubby (before he was the hubby). I boarded early--probably 25 minutes before the door was going to close--for all the reasons listed above. In fact, only one person boarded ahead of me. Here is what he did: He raced directly to the lavatory in the back of the plane. From my typically crappy-status-middle-toward-the-back seat, I could hear and, soon after, smell the intestinal distress transpiring in that lavatory. Five minutes later, he exited without a trace of embarrassment and took his seat. As the plane filled, every other passenger could smell it and boy did it linger. I was trying to make cringy-faced expressions and eye contact to indicate, "Wasn't me." NTB. Earlier, when the action was still audible, a flight attendant and I had exchanged a single, horrified glance. Six or seven years later, I remember this incident. What I'm still trying to work out is why, with plenty of time to spare, this man chose to do his business in the airplane lavatory and not in the gate area where he could have chosen a larger stall with better ventilation and a potentially smaller and more transient audience. Yes, I know sometimes these things can catch you off guard, but the way he hustled to the back of the plane, it was as if he had been waiting to use that lavatory.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
