Like returning to this blog after an extended absence, I have recently returned to the gym. Not sure what prompted me. The realization that I am an older mom with a 10 year-old daughter who has triple my energy, the way my belly looked like two lumpy blueberry muffins protruding from the top of my “fat” jeans, or the fact that swimsuit season is rapidly approaching. For a woman, these are all powerful motivators and probably each played an integral part in my finally getting up off my butt and committing to losing some weight and getting in shape. Oh, and that really cool MyFitness app I have on my new Smart-phone  that helps me track my daily calories didn’t hurt. Yeah, there’s a little tech geek in me.  

Well, in addition to feeling healthier in general, my return to the gym has opened up a whole new world to me. One of MORNING TELEVISION. Did you know that ellipticals have personal TVs on them? Yeah, you probably did. Tells you how long it’s been since I’ve hit a gym. In my defense, until a recent hip injury, I was always a runner.

Anyway, now that I’m spending an hour a day on these joint-friendly machines, I have seen all manner of drivel compelling stories on the tube. For example, I know that Kelly has a new set. That Lamar and Khloe aren’t happy in Texas. And that most hair stylists are handling scissors and bleaching products while drunk. (BTW that Tabatha is one scary $#@&%).

But just yesterday, I saw something that really got my panties in a bunch. Something so moronic and utterly ridiculous I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry.

One of the news shows did a hard-driving, in-depth piece on an Olympic athlete who had started her own line of activewear. As she was presenting her various pieces, holding them up for the camera (and all her potential customers in TV Land) to see, she pointed out what she thought was their most important and sellable feature. No, it wasn’t the vibrant colors that are guaranteed to draw the attention of that rock-hard guy at Gold’s Gym who is busily turning his six-pack into an eight-pack. It wasn’t the revealing little cut-outs that add that titillating little glimpse of the small of your back that silently screams “come hither, rock-hard dude!”

It was their ability to WICK MOISTURE! That’s right. These overly-priced gym clothes are guaranteed to SOAK UP and HIDE YOUR SWEAT.

To this I vehemently, though kindly, say: No thanks, Gold Medalist chick!

I don’t know about you, but I don’t go to the gym and work my butt off so that I can hide all evidence that I have been working like a maniac. When I get off that machine, I don’t want to look like I just spent the morning doing light errands about town. I want to LOOK like I did intervals at levels 10 and 12 for an hour! As I gather my water bottle, cell phone, ear phones, towel and gym bag I want to glimpse my reflection in the mirror and see the sweaty fruit of my hard labor. I want to walk past those who are just entering the gym on the way to their workout and think to myself as I pass them… “Yeah, that’s right, ya’ll. I kicked butt on the Precor today”.

AAAAND…. If I so happen to run into someone I know at the Starbucks after my workout… well, I can’t help it if they admire the sweat stains on my pits and belly, can I?

Okay, maybe admire is too strong a word. Actually, I’m not really so delusional. I know no one is looking at me when I leave the gym. I know the barista is probably thinking “Ew. Why can’t this lady go home and shower before she comes in here?” And I don’t really run into people I know at Starbucks that often. And even if I did, most of the sweat is gone by the time I get there.

I guess I just need to see the sweat for me. So that I can get some outward validation of the terrific mental energy and resolve it takes me to drag myself to the gym everyday. See, it’s not easy for me. And it’s gotten harder the older I get. But I know I need it to feel healthy and better about myself. And honestly, so I can be around for as long as possible in my little girl’s life.

Unlike my mother who had me at 21, I was older when I had my daughter. So I think a lot about my life expectancy and how much of her life I’ll get to spend with her. Because I’m an older mom I’ve cheated myself out of a decade or more of her life. Of seeing where her life leads her, of being a grandmother to her children, of being there for her when she needs me.

So I guess it’s not really the muffin tops or swimsuit season. The main reason I’m sweating is for my kid. Because kids need their moms in their lives for as long a possible. (Whether or not they’ll admit it).  And I WANT to see the immediate results of my efforts – every stinky, sweaty drop of it – because then I know I’m making progress to this end.

So sorry, Miss Nine-time Gold Medalist. This is one mommy who won’t be purchasing your moisture-wicking active wear. I’ll stick to my worn-out Old Navy T’s from three seasons ago. Because, like the wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, they honestly display what I have experienced. Pit stains and all.

Okay. I know I haven’t posted in a while. Weeks in fact. I plan on getting back to the keyboard soon. But in the meantime, I couldn’t let a Thanksgiving go by with offering up the greatest Thanksgiving gift of all. The thing for which I am most, well close to most, thankful.

My brother John’s Thanksgiving Song. It’s historical and hysterical. My favorite combo.

Watch. Enjoy. Share. And Happy Thanksgiving, my MAMMAKAZES!

We recently bought a new family car. American if you must know. The first time in, well, ever. We’ve always been Honda and Toyota folk. I also had a VW Bug in college. Red. Cherry. Nice. 

But Randy the perfekt husband felt very strongly that we should “Buy American”. You know, what with everything that’s gone down the last few years. Also, the car we bought got fabulous reviews. Better gas mileage and safety ratings than the new version of the Honda we currently own. And we’d read that the American car companies were really stepping it up to compete. Soooo… we took the plunge.

Well, within 3 weeks, the car developed a SQUEAK in the back. With all the driving Randy does, it was driving him crazy. Soooo… our new American car had to go into the shop. After a full day of researching, they found the problem.

The Service Guy called and told me that the problem was in the back cargo door.

SERVICE GUY: We put a shim in to keep the door from banging.

So when Randy got home from work that night and he and Julia (our 9 year-old)  and I were hanging out, I explained to him all about the shim.

JULIA: What’s a shim?

ME: It’s something they wedge tightly in between two things to keep them from banging.

We weren’t thrilled about this development in our brand new car, but that’s not the point of the story.

So the next day is Saturday. And Saturday is usually our sleep-in day. But sometimes, when the house is quiet and all creatures are sleeping (and by creatures I mean Julia) Randy and I take the opportunity to “spend some MUCH NEEDED quality time together”. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more.

So I snuggle up next to him. He puts his arm around me. We smooch, ignoring each other’s morning breath knowing that the clock is ticking and getting up to brush our teeth will only eat away at precious minutes.

We lock in an amorous embrace when SUDDENLY… pad! pad! pad! That well-known sound of little feet approaching.

Randy and I share a final lingering look (you know, the same one Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio shared right before the Titanic hit the ice cold water and sucked them down into the dark depths)  bracing ourselves for the inevitable onslaught of skinny arms, legs and elbows.

And sure enough, we bounced in the air as 62 pounds of 9 year-old hit the bed, crawled over top of me like I was nothing more than a bump in the road, and WEDGED herself right in the middle of her father and me.

RANDY: (groaning) OOmph! Ow!

ME: Excuse me! What do you think you’re doing all wedged in there?

And here’s what she said. I kid you not.

JULIA: (sporting a big grin) I’m the shim that keeps you and dad from banging!

Randy and I looked at each other. No truer words were ever spoken.  Sigh.

Maybe next Saturday. Or when she goes off to college…

Our lives have changed a lot since we discovered Julia has a sensitivity to gluten and refined sugars. Most notably are the multiple weekly trips we take to Whole Foods. It’s one of the only places we can get the food she can eat.

I’d never been there much. I was always a Trader Joe’s gal because it’s cheaper and I found the extra two mile drive to Whole Foods to be pretty daunting. And all those Priuses! Jeez! Yes, I know I drive one. But I don’t buzz around acting like I’m single-handedly saving the planet. I mean, I still haven’t totally figured out the recycling codes on the bottom of those plastic containers. And can’t for the life of me remember if construction paper and milk cartons go into the green trash can.  And anyone who tells you they have it figured out is LYING!

Anyway, I ran across this video. It’s really true. Especially the part about the lady in yoga pants. It’s a required uniform for perusing the gluten-free aisle. Which is why I get dirty looks. I don’t have yoga pants because I don’t have a yoga butt to go in them. But that’s a different post.

Enjoy this music video. Heads up though. If you don’t know what Quinoa is, you might not get it.

Of all people, Randy the perfekt husband shared the link to this video with me. He knows how I feel about that show TODDLERS AND TIARAS which showcases the world of child pageants where these moms dress their preschool daughters up like tarty dolls and parade them on stage in front of people in desperate attempts to get attention for themselves.

Judgemental much, you ask? Yep. When it comes to the exploitation of kids. Yes, I am.

Anyway. Tom Hanks did a spoof of this show when he appeared on Jimmy Kimmel. You may have already seen it as, as usual, I am the last to know.

Enjoy. Or be disgusted. It kind of evokes both emotions.

What is it with kids and their infinite ability to annoy their parents? Why do they do it? Is it learned behavior? Are they hard-wired? Is it part of nature’s evolutionary drive to prepare parents for the eventual empty nest? You know, so that we feel relief rather than grief when they finally leave home?

Whatever the reasons. It’s FREAKING ANNOYING!

Just today Julia – who is rapidly approaching age 9 which seems to have kicked her annoyance creativity into high gear – was repeatedly rubbing the flat side of an emery board against a blank 3×5 notecard!

How she came to be in possession of these two seemingly disparate and unrelated items is a mystery. What compelled her to continually rub that card with the board resulting in one of the most  irritating sounds since fingernails on a chalkboard or metal pans scraping together  - is also a mystery. The end result, my heightening irritability – was a foregone conclusion.

And it’s not just this. It’s a series of things. Why, just last week I was made to repeatedly listen for the almost imperceptible squeak of air exiting her tear duct as she held her nose and blew.

Again and again she wanted me to hear it. Not because she was proud of it or fascinated at discovering new things her body could do…. No. I’m convinced it was simply to annoy me.

A few weeks back it was the DORKY FACE. This was where she would contort her face into a really dweeby expression and do a thumbs up gesture. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal. I mean, it’s a free country. Look like a dork to your heart’s desire. It’s what the founding fathers intended. HOWEVER….  

 How many times I had to LOOK MOM LOOK! I can’t even tell you. But if I had a nickel for every time. Well, I’m sure I could have purchased a $20 Starbucks card…minimum.

Yes, I tried the “your face will freeze like that.” I’m not opposed to lying in dire situations. Like when irritating behavior (hers) meets hormonal fluctuations (mine) in what could potentially be a China Syndrome situation. But she’s too smart for that. She would only smile and do the dork. AGAIN! Thumbs up for the try, mom!

Sometimes the torture takes the form of Britney Spears. Yeah, I know. Horrifying, huh? But it gets worse. Julia actually shrieks the words to “Toxic” at the highest range of her vocal chords while I’m drying her hair. To make matters worse, this usually occurs around 8 pm after 12 hours of cumulative small annoyances. As you can imagine my tolerance by then has worn thin… very thin.

Am I a bad mom because I  don’t find absolutely everything my child does to be delightful and worthy of kudos? Am I a bad mom that sometimes I want to yell at the top of my lungs STOP IT! YOU’RE DRIVING ME FREAKING INSANE!

I don’t do it. Know why? Because I remember that in college I was famous for a little thing called THE SAILOR CHICKEN FACE. So famous in fact that I almost did it on live TV once… But I begged out.

And when I look at my kid, contorting the left side of her mouth so that it almost touches her ear, sticking out her tongue in an attempt to reach her nose, crossing her eyes in opposite directions while making a sort of  “bastard child of a thousand maniacs” sound — ALL AT THE SAME TIME… I remember, I was like that too. And it didn’t stop until I was WAAAAY past legal drinking age. In fact, I think it got worse around that time.

So maybe she’s doing it to annoy me. Or maybe it’s genetic. From her mamma. Like her astygmatic brown eyes and her love of carbs. And well, I can’t blame her for being who she is… can I? Then I WOULD BE a bad mom.