Winner Winner Chicken Ball Dinner

Last month I talked about my eight year old son being in his first grappling tournament. He did really well, with one round going into multiple overtimes because he would just not go down. It was awesome and if I hadn’t said some fairly questionable stuff in the throes of excitement, I’d post the video. Ultimately he came in third, and as you can see in the picture above, he’s positively thrilled with the outcome.

One of his rounds went eight whole minutes of constant grappling. That’s a long time to do anything physical and if you don’t think so then you weren’t on my honeymoon.

Last month I also talked about me starting the Insanity workout series. “Oh! How’s that going?”you may be wondering. Please refer to my Craigslist posting under Barely Viewed Exercise DVD’s (some tear staining) for updates to that project.

But keeping in mind that my son was able to work at something so hard that he looked like this…

…made me think that maybe I should do something equally as challenging myself. A friend suggested we do a 5k together. This “friend” runs regularly. I run to catch the garbage truck or when someone is chasing me. I am not a runner. I don’t wear or own any article of clothing labelled “Active Performance,” nor do I want to. I like my outfits somewhere more towards cozy and with the ability to hide nacho stains.

With the promise of treats at the finish line, I hesitantly agreed and downloaded the Couch to 5k Running App on my phone. So far I can run for a full three minutes which you may think doesn’t sound like much until you realized that on day one, I literally barfed into a stranger’s recycling bin. That was after 60 seconds of continual running. The thought of any amount more than that was as unfathomable as one day being able to afford my student loan.

So I’m up to three minutes. Go me, right? Nope. I don’t allow myself praise unless it comes in the form of something with cheese melted on it, so I’ll reserve that for the finish line.

Am I enjoying it? Does the pope wear a hat? Oh wait. The Pope does wear a hat. So how about I just tell you HELL NO I DON’T LIKE IT. I hate every single minute of it so far, but it’s good exercise and it’s only half an hour three times a week and maybe it’ll grow on me. But I doubt it. Also, runners, when will I stop crying? I swear I cry every single time I run. Is this a runner thing? Because I can’t get on board with the whole “show emotion” part.

As for my son, all he wanted after his grappling tournament was a fancy beverage and some Chinese buffet. He may be a lean, mean, grappling machine, but he’s not so tough he can’t enjoy a good “Shirley Temple” mocktail with an umbrella and citrus twist. He may also be a 70 year old Boca Vista retiree.

Sports bras and Insanity. They are related.

It was exercise day today and I’m laying on my bed right now. It’s after 6, and I should be making dinner, but the fact of the matter is that I can’t move any of my legs. (I think I have two. But I’m not sure, because I can’t feel anything below my chest.)

My chest was spared from injury because my 14 year-old daughter helped me tape my boobs together. I believe that if you are going to do something, do it right and enlist help from those legally obligated to love you regardless.

I’ve watched all the stupid Insanity DVDs in this set and no where is there a woman with a chest bigger than the one I had in grade five. I know muscle takes place of some fatty tissue, but what about the “before” part? Million dollar sports bras are an option but my children have grown accustomed to the taste of red meat and I hate to take that away from them just so I can do something called a “Suicide Jump” without giving myself a concussion.

I am a sexy beast, no?

And so day three of Insanity is over, although to be fair it ended sooner than anticipated when my son found me curled up sobbing on the basement floor with my breasts bound with blue duct tape, so you know, any given Monday.

I wrote some other stuff this week, over at The Huffington Post and at MamaPop.com, all of which is substantially more inspiring.*

* It will not inspire you at all.

Maybe you’ll like this picture of my son trapped under an anvil instead:

He knows my pain.

Insanity Workout Update, Day Two: There will be no Insanity Workout Day Two

Someone bought me the Insanity (Beach Body) DVD workout set. I’m not sure why I need a “Beach Body.” I live in Canada and beaches aren’t places I’m likely to stumble over on my way to buy winter tires and kindling. You need to make a concerted effort to get to a beach from where I live, and they’re only warm enough to swim in from 2:30 – 4:00 pm on July 26th of any given year. That’s a lot of bother to spend an hour drinking strangers urine and dodging floating band-aids. A “Sit on the Couch and Watch TV Body Workout” I could get behind, but “Beach Body?” No. If Someone really knew me, Someone would understand I don’t have time for “Elite Nutrition” guides which do not contain brownie recipes.

This particular gift from Someone surprised me because Someone is usually perceptive about general gift-giving rules, which clearly state:

• No creams or lotions which claim to “fade age spots,” “lighten facial hair,” “improve the appearance of wrinkles,” or “lessen the signs of aging.”
• No appliances – small or large – without express written consent from recipient. (Exceptions may be applicable in cases of ice cream makers or deep fryers.)
• No diet or workout propaganda, apparatus, or equipment.

Someone said he was going to participate in the torture contained within Insanity’s slender volume of DVDs, but Someone had to go to the beer store after work and then Someone was too tired to do anything but open said beer. Then Someone thought it would be funny to drop things and watch me try to pick them up as the Insanity Fit Test DVD had left me in a state of near paralysis.

Exactly how safe is it to take a paralyzed individual to a beach?

Someone hasn’t been putting a whole lot of thought into his gifts lately.

Choking on her dust

My daughter starts high school next September. Her grade eight teacher tells me she should be placed in the Advanced Program at high school – that my daughter is a hard worker, a fast learner, and that she retains information.

I hope they offer “Emptying the Dishwasher 101,” and “General Laundry Folding Techniques” next semester.

She does indeed have excellent study habits, and refuses to miss school  for almost any reason. I say this not to brag, but in the same way that I would tell you my son once buried our compost bin in 3 feet of mud and that I am 39 years old and need compression stockings and blood pressure medication– because it’s true.

Last night her future high school hosted an orientation for grade eight students and their parents. Bubbly high school seniors in black polo shirts with popped collars gave the kids warm cookies and a tour of the school while telling them what to expect in terms of uniforms, dances and clubs, and delicious hot cafeteria lunches. They told them all about study abroad possibilities and travel opportunities and how they could earn credits by building schools in the Dominion Republic!

At the same time, parents were corralled into the freezing audigymnateria where school officials in suits and ties told us how much we had to pay for uniforms, how much we had to pay for dances and clubs and lunches, and also how to begin the organ donation process so that we could afford to have our kids build schools in the Dominion Republic.

When the parent presentation was over, the parents of these intelligent, quick-learning studious children in the Advancement Placement program were invited to another room for further discussion.

I was almost late getting there, to that Advanced Placement meeting.

My finger was stuck in my purse zipper.

Stubble Trouble

Normally today I’d put up a “Tip Thursday” post, but there’s been a  bit of drama around here and I can’t stop thinking about the problem at hand. Or rather, the problem at face.

This morning I found a hair on my cheek. Rather, IN my cheek.

A freaking cheek hair.

A cheek hair.

A HAIR.

IN MY CHEEK.

I’ll take “Two words that shouldn’t ever go together when referring to women,” Alex.

I know that everyone has a little fuzz on their faces, and that there are bigger problems in the world to spend time discussing. I understand that children go to bed hungry, and blahblahblah I DON’T GIVE A SHIT I’VE GOT HAIR ON MAI FACE.

I am neither a man nor a beast, so why is this happening to me?

I spotted the hair this morning and brushed it away, thinking it was an errant lock from my head. Sadly, this was not the case. It was gray (because OF COURSE IT WAS) and it was glittery. It was at least 3 inches long, and I may save it to use as tinsel on the Christmas tree, if I stop crying in time to buy a tree.

How did it grow so long? Is it possible that it’s been there for many days, or weeks?  OH MY GOD IT’S BEEN THERE FOR MONTHS, HASN’T IT? It took three tries to pull it out and the root was long. It still hurts and there’s a bit of a hole marking the spot of the struggle.

Do I have a horrible disease wherein I start sprouting facial hair while the hair on my head thins and grays? Are my vital organs suffering at the hands of this nutrient-life-force-sucking cheek hair? Is this my “Welcome to 40, Biotch” warm-up? I’ve got 2 months left in 39 and I’d like to spend them facial-hair free, if possible.

I mean, I love a bearded man, so maybe my prayers were misinterpreted somehow?

Is this a precursor of what’s to come?  What can I expect next?

Give it to me straight, friends. I’ll be back to check in a few hours. Until then, I’ll be upstairs.

Shaving.

__________________________________________________________________________

Updated: Uh oh, you guys. It gets worse. Apparently, MUCH worse. Let my friend Sharon tell you:

The Product You Thought You’d Never Need

Read this when your turkey coma sets in; that way you won’t remember and/or be disappointed

Today is the American Thanksgiving, but here in Canada it’s just Thursday. It’s kind of special because my kids don’t have school tomorrow, but I do have to go for Parent/Teacher interviews. If past year’s interviews are to be used as my yardstick, I expect to hear a lot of this: “Keep on keepin’ on.”

My kids are excellent students, and know how to fly under the radar. That’s not bragging; it’s disbelief. They’re smart – don’t get me wrong about that – it’s more that I can’t believe they didn’t fall into the genetic trap my family lays down for its members: make them smart, give them a good (albeit twisted) sense of humour, and then put them in a room with a captive audience. Oh, and make sure they have a zero bullshit tolerance and maybe have them over think everythingsinglethingever. Result: We usually quit (or are asked to leave) by high school.

But so far, so good.

Anyway, I’m not well this week (fluish something) and while I am on the mend, I have no energy for a Tip Thursday other than this:

Tips For Not Getting Sick this Cold and Flu Season:

1. Take your vitamins.
2. Avoid excessive sugar.
3. Don’t lick doorknobs.

That should do it.

So just like the big TV networks on a holiday, here’s a re-run for you. If you’re celebrating today, have a great Thanksgiving. And please; if you’re shopping tomorrow on something called “Black Friday,” don’t get trampled. “She Died Saving $7 on a Bagel Toaster” is not something you want on your tombstone.

Cheese Club

(originally run on December 16, 2010)

According to my Advil Advent calendar, Christmas is just over a week away. Until now I felt that I had everything under control in the holiday planning department – most of the gifts we need have been bought, wrapped, and are under the tree. My annual manifesto Christmas letter is almost complete; I’m just holding off with some of the details until I see how the judge makes his ruling. I’ve written my final exams for the semester and with the kids still in school for the rest of the week I finally have some time for leisurely pursuits like my annual leg shaving.

There are just a few people we still hadn’t bought gifts for, so PM and I headed out this afternoon, determined to buy everything we needed today. But after all the shopping I’ve been doing recently, I was exhausted after half an hour into the trip.

(Actually it was probably the episode earlier at a Big Box Home Store that sapped my energy. I’m sorry, but when there are more than 6 people in a check-out line and the cashier is interviewing each customer and counting out their change in pennies I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I’m also thinking that most of my shopping will soon have to be done primarily online for legal reasons.)

We decided to be brave and go to the Price Club. By the time we had walked the 40 acres from our parking spot, I was done. PM and I made plans to split the list and meet after an hour. The next thing I knew I was being woken up by a lady in a smock poking me in the face with a tray of European cheese samples. I took her tray and went to find PM. He was looking at electric saunas.

“Hi there!” He was cheerful. “Look what I found while you were napping on the doggie beds.”

I peered into his Hyundai sized shopping cart and said, “I was tired. That car tire sized wheel of Gouda made me drowsy.” I picked through the stuff in the cart. “Are these the gifts?”

“Um…yeah. Yeah; they are.”

“Huh. Who are the pickled asparagus and sledgehammer for?”

“We’re playing Secret Santa at work.”

“Hmm. What about the 40-pack of mousetraps, 2 qt. jar of Cheez Whiz and the 2011 Monster Truck Encyclopedia?”

“My Mom.”

“Lucky lady. And what’s that?” I asked, pointing to something at the bottom of the cart. “Everything in this cart is for us, isn’t it?”

“I got some pancake mix…” he started.

“That’s a bag of powdered drywall spackle!”

“…and a frying pan that makes snowflake shaped pancakes!”

“For the spackle?”

“If it’s shaped like a snowflake and covered with maple syrup the kids aren’t even going to notice.” He seemed confident.

“Did you find Rock Band 3 for the Wii?” I asked.

“No; but are you sure the kids even want it?” He didn’t seem convinced.

“Absolutely! Yes! Kind of. Probably. I mean, when I mentioned it they didn’t say no…exactly.”

“You told me they were begging for it.”

“Because I think it will be good for them. They need the guitar practice.”

“The Rock Band guitar is an electronic stick with push buttons on it.”

I pressed on. “Regardless, They should master the bass pedal and high hat on the drum kit. Plus, I think they are ready to understand the pressures of the road.”

“Jeni…Jeni, put the cheese down. You are never going to ‘go’ again if you don’t lay off the dairy. And you know that you’re not really in a band, right? It’s a game…something you do for fun – like karaoke or home dentistry. And you really need to stop referring to your minivan as ‘the tour bus.’ I should tell you that people are starting to talk.”

When we left he had to pull his toque down to cover the snowflake shaped red mark on his forehead.

At least it’s Friday

I’m putting this out there, partially in the hopes that “giving it up to the universe” will bring some positivity ‘round these parts.

Next week has got to get better. This week was built from the days that feel like no matter what you’re doing –  no matter how hard you’re swimming – you cannot keep your head above water and oh, sweet Jesus are those sharks over there and why are they carrying clipboards?

Things are less than great right now and although I’ve got a good sense of humour, sometimes having an arsenal of other survival mechanisms would be nice. Like, say, a shit ton of money. Or maybe or a raccoon that instead of ripping open my garbage bags, pooped golden bars in my garden. Covered in chocolate.

It’s tiring, this swimming against the current. I hesitate even to write about it because there are people in my life who do not support decisions I’ve made that have put me in this place. But they are generally not kind people, some who even take glee in knowing that I face challenges. That used to make me angry. Then it made me sad. Then angry again. Now I think I just don’t care. It’s like my brain exhausted all the energy my psyche was willing to supply. Is that a coping strategy in itself? Specific mental apathy?

This place is temporary, though. They will be jerks forever.

Obama won. I’m glad. I have a problem understanding a lot of GOP ideology, and although I think their party has some core values worthy of examination, I do not understand where the anger and vitriol of some members towards Obama and Democrats comes from. I don’t understand how women in America could vote for the party who tolerate/allow/perpetuate/condone/whatthehellever hatred of women. Make no mistake; it’s hatred and misogyny and patriarchy and a whole bunch of those other big words academics use to say “hatred of women.”

You don’t limit a woman’s agency or autonomy without a clear subtext of misogynistic ass-hattery. I don’t care if Mitt Romney himself didn’t say things about rape and legitimacy and birth control or not; he didn’t do enough to condemn those who did.

And why do we even care who puts their what where? I don’t even really care about what most people did on the weekend. Criteria for marriage should be thus: Are the participants adult parties willing to enter said union without pressure from outlying forces, either implied or explicit? Yes? Yeehaw! Where’s the champagne?

I’m a Canadian. Does that say it all?

I’ve had access to universal health care and a “social safety net” all of my life, and I’ve used it. My daughter had a fingered severed and reattached and it cost me $7. Yes, I pay taxes –  a lot by some people’s standards –  but I don’t think you could convince me or my daughter that it wasn’t worth every goddamn penny.

Would I be happy to pay if by some stroke of luck I didn’t ever need to use it? Would I be happy to continue to pay the same rate of tax so that someone other than me could use the “fund?” Would I be happy to have contributed to a stranger’s health care by deductions off my own wages - even for a stranger who doesn’t work?

Would I be happy to pay then?

You bet your sweet ass, I would. (Assumption of your having “a sweet ass” are solely those of the author.)

I cannot imagine how it must feel not to have that.

We’re going out tonight, to a comedy club. I hope no one makes any sexist or homophobic jokes, because friends?

I AM IN NO MOOD.

Sundown, you’d better take care (and also something about facial hair.)

Last night was Daylight Saving Time for many people. I love the “fall back” time of the year, mostly for the early darkness that goes with it. It almost like nature giving you permission to go to bed earlier, which the old woman I am becoming appreciates. Plus, less sunlight = less visible wrinkles.

A few nights ago I was in bed and I was thisclose to falling asleep when the phone rang. The telemarketers around here are unbelievable and have no reverence for things like meal times or primetime programming schedules. Who calls this late, I wondered. How badly do people need new windows/air duct cleaning/lawn care/Conservative party propaganda robo-calls that they’re willing to risk calling at this late hour?

It was 8 o’clock. In the PM.

I love the early bedtimes of autumn.

I like warm houses fogging your glasses, slow-cooked oven meals, the smell of wool mittens drying on heating vents, pink cheeks, the rumble of snow blowers, and pond skating.

Here are some other things I loved this week:

Bloggers providing/organizing help for Sandy victims - if you’re too far away to physically help, or you can’t afford to donate, you can donate blood because that’s free and you probably have an extra pint or two anyways. Contact your local Red Cross: Canada here, and the United States here.

If you got some free time this week (and if you don’t – make some) how about planning out an emergency preparedness kit? Here’s a starting point for you. That’s the freaky thing about unexpected events – they’re so unexpected. There really is no city completely safe from having some kind of emergency. Even if you live in an area completely devoid of risk from earthquake, tornado, hurricane, or snowstorm, you’re going to be glad you’ve got those extra rolls of toilet paper and a topped-up Ativan prescription if your mother-in-law comes to visit over the Christmas holidays and stays until Easter.

On the positive side of this past week, there was this:

Halloween Candy Haul – child #2

And this – the thing I wait ALL YEAR for:

I mean, COME ON.

I’ll leave you with that beautiful image. I hope you have a great, hairy-faced, warm-soup, foggy glasses week.

You can also find me at MamaPop this week. I was there twice this week, writing about how Randy Quaid should run for Prime Minister of Canada, and how Taylor Swift, Angelina Jolie, and Kate Moss are just like us! No really, they totally are!

MacGyver Pest Control

If you’re a parent, you know that you will do anything to protect your child from harm, using whatever means and/or tools necessary.

I know this is true because I have been sharing a bunk bed with my son for the last eight years (he’s eight) on “Vampire Lookout” duty. I’m pretty sure they’re not coming for him. He snores and he’s a bit of a challenge at night which is when they spend all of their time awake, so I’m certain they’d return him after a week or so anyway.

I pointed out to him that the vampires won’t kill you, they just bite you on the neck with their fangs and then make you sleep in a coffin, but this did surprisingly little to comfort him.

Eh. I tried.

Everyone has heard about  95-pound mothers who lift heavy machinery off of their children using the rush of adrenaline evolution provides thanks with the animal “fight or flight” response. A parent will protect their child at all costs, and anyone who says they could never kill another human being has never had their child excluded from a game of rounders at the playground even though they were the one who brought cupcakes for everybody and even remembered a gluten-free one for that wheezy kid whose nose is always running.

Sorry. It’s pretty fresh.

So while I may not be a vampire slayer, or ever had to lift a bus off my trapped child, I do want to show you the lengths I go to in order to keep my kids safe from the forces of evil, the vampire underworld, and very, very large bugs.

* I had a weird “deja vu” feeling as I write this. I check my tags and sure enough, I had written about bugs before. And look at the date on this other post about my struggle to keep us safe from critters. Next September, I’m heading south where they just have scorpions and dry counties.

The most frightening thing you will see all day

I can’t decide if it’s the eyes or the crazy smile that scare me the most. And I’m no doctor, but don’t babies have pupils? And also irises?

Maybe it’s the umbilical cord looking like a python choking on a piglet that I’m reacting to.

You’ll also be relieved to learn that at some point during the last weeks of gestation, his left arm did descend from his neck into the usual position. But his feet still totally look like that – little dirt-speckled dinner buns.

(And if “do flips” means “stomp on your cervix with a pair of golf cleats that were in here for some unknown reason,” then yes, he did “do flips.”)