I knew that as my children advanced in school, I would be faced with academic questions I would be unable to answer. I did not, however, expect it to begin in preschool.
It’s starting already with the whole learning to read thing. No, I am not having trouble with her preschool books, thank you very much. I'm finding it difficult to explain our janked-up language.
She was sounding out words yesterday and proudly announced, “Kuh-Kuh-cake! Kuh-Kuh-cup! Cake and cup begin with K!” And I had to look into those excited, satisfied-with-herself, little eyes and tell her that, “No, honey, actually those words begin with a C.
And then she asked the dreaded question...“But why?”
Arrgggghh. Truthfully, L, I have no freakin’ idea why.
Why do we have the letter C when we already have K and S? Why do we have the letter Y when we already have I? Why does the word eye not even have an I in it? Why does the word one not begin with a W? Why doesn’t tomb, comb, and bomb all rhyme??
And then there is the issue with past-tese verbs. Sure it sounds cute when a toddler says drinked or sleeped but there comes a time when that has to be corrected.
"Z sleeped for a long time last night."
"No, Z slept for a long time."
"Oh, well I eated all my breakfast this morning."
"No, you ate all your breakfast."
"Yeah, well, I drust myself this morning!"
"No, you dressed yourself!"
And L's just looking at me like I'm the one who needs to be back in preschool.
Seriously, how did any of us ever learn this language in the first place?
One thing I am struggling with the most about this whole mess is that our language is riddled with way to many exceptions to the rules. I before E except after C and when sounding like A as in neighbor and weigh and weekends and holidays and all throughout May and you’ll always be wrong no matter what you say!
During a time in her life when I am trying to establish my rules and enforce them, the idea that rules could have exceptions is not a concept I want her to be familiar with. What if I tell her that she can’t have dessert until after she’s had dinner and she hits me with, “Dessert after dinner expect when you're thinner and when you’re away like at Gran’s or Aunt Kay’s and during Leap Year and Sundays and on every holiday and I’ll always eat cake no matter what you say!”?
Sigh.
And if I am already having trouble explaining school work to her in preschool, what I am going to do when she gets to kindergarten? What am I going to tell her when she asks me what E=MC2 means??
No, seriously...what should I tell her? Because I have absolutely no idea.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Fashion Woes
I have never been very fashion savvy. Just this past weekend, I filled an entire garbage bag (the big, black, heavy-duty kind) to the bursting point with clothes that have been hanging in my closet for years -- and that I have never worn. Why is it that clothes look good in the store, but never seem to look as good once you get them home? I think the stores are using trick mirrors. That would explain why I looked like Pamela Anderson in a bikini at the store and Rosanne Barr stuffed into a tiny string of spandex at home.
Here are a few posts from the past that also deal with my struggles with fashion over the years...
Rustling Pants Dance
October 20, 2000
I bought some fabulous new black pants at Express the other day. I got all excited about them, as I am wont to do when I buy a new clothing item that I deem fabulous. I ironed them lovingly last night, along with the brand new shirt bought especially to compliment the fabulous new black pants. I wore this new outfit to the office today, feeling happy and confident in my latest wardrobe acquisition.
I continued to feel happy and confident until I got up to go to the break room to get my first cup of coffee. No, it wasn't my reflection in the darkened office window which caused me to be distressed. It was that fact that in this extremely quiet office, my brand-new outfit is very loud! Whatever material these pants are made of produces a sound akin to that made by an overweight person wearing tight corduroys.
The lower portion of the pants are flared (kind of like bell-bottoms, but not as pronounced). The extra material around my ankles swishes together with every step, like a cricket rubbing its hind legs together to produce sound.
I didn't notice it in the store, of course, because of all the hub-bub associated with a mall. And I didn't notice it in my apartment because I didn't put them on until I was ready to walk out the door (to minimize wrinkling), nor did I notice it while walking across the parking lot of the office building because of the street traffic running alongside the complex. It wasn't until I was walking through the half-empty cubicle graveyard that I became aware of the fact that I was wearing an outfit which was, essentially, turning me into a walking one-woman band.
People, these pants are effecting the way I walk. I find that I am taking larger and wider steps. I caught a glimpse of myself in the darkened office window/mirror and was horrified to see that the reflection was that of a lumbering chimp wearing my brand new outfit! So, I have only left my desk twice this entire day. These pants are holding me prisoner in my cube!
I feel that clothing stores should affix warning labels to certain items, alerting the consumer of the possibility that the article of clothing may be the source of an embarrassing sound situation. It is the only responsible thing to do. Until then, however, I would suggest that you exercise caution when purchasing suspect materials. If you find yourself trapped in your cubicle unable to even get up to go to the bathroom lest you disturb the entire office with your rustling pants dance, don't say I didn't warn you.
The White Pants
June 8, 2001
Yesterday at lunch I went in search of some white pants. For the longest time I have avoided the dreaded white pants fad and swore that I would never stoop to own a pair. They went against everything I held sacred as a woman of fashion. My main problem being that white pants are merciless. They show every single flaw. And, in my enlightened fashion state, I have shuddered every time I have encountered a woman who failed to see this. I was determined not to fall victim to this gross miscalculation of just how much fat can be stored inside a huge expanse of white material and not be offensive to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind me. But I kept seeing all these thin, cute, young things parading around in their hip, white pants and I thought, "Dammit! I can still wear white pants, can't I?" No, seriously people, I'm asking...can't I?
Well, as of yesterday, I am the owner of some capri length stretch lycra/cotton blend pants from the Gap. So let's hope she still can.
But, why, if I am so opposed to this fashion trend, and ultimately terrified of misjudging just what I can and cannot put on my body, did I buy them -- nay, seek them out like the last of the Pokemon trading cards -- in the first place?
Well, it all started with the cutest light brown sweater tank. You see, I simply had to buy this garment. You know how sometimes you just aren't given a choice? It calls to you from across the store and the minute you put it on you know that you are powerless to put it back on the rack? Well, that's exactly how this sweater ended up in my possession -- and 50 of my hard-earned dollars found themselves in the possession of Rich's.
So, here I am with this fabulous top -- so fabulous, in fact, that I put it on at least once a night just to remind myself of how fabulous it is -- and yet nothing to wear it with.
Sure, I could go with the classic black pants. But too many of my outfits are based on the black pants. And this sweater is way to amazing to wear with jeans. Whenever I have entered a store since the buying of said amazing sweater, I have searched in vain for the perfect pair of pants to wear with this glorious find.
And then, one day while strolling through the mall on one of my many lunch-hour fashion treasure hunts, I saw her -- a woman wearing a light brown sweater/white pants combo. And it looked great! It was then I knew that I would have to sacrafice everything I had believed in fashion-wise for the sake of this light brown sweater tank.
But buying a simple pair of white pants is anything but simple. The very first pair I tried on left me with the horrifying discovery that not all white pants are lined. What in the hell is that? Why in the name of all that is fashionable, would you make white pants that have no lining? Hello? Just what in the heck are the fashion gods expecting us to wear under these things? Any type of underwear is so grossly apparent you might as well be wearing them outside the pants. And any attempt at going comando could only be perceived as a violation of several indecency acts. Either choice will automatically ensure that you wind up in the back of Glamour magazine with a black bar graphically imposed over your eyes and carrying the dreaded label "Don't."
The other version of white pants that I came across in abundance, was of the crack-revealing, blood-circulation-preventing polyester nightmare club pants. There were plenty of white jean choices, but, as I said before, this sweater deserves better than denim.
So, after four pair of non-lined, two pair of insanely tight low-riding-slut-club style and one pair of 100% linen (which is just begging for anything to be spilled on), I finally found a pair of white pants, classicly fit, complete with lining, that offers both the thong or the comando option. So, yea, me. I finally own some white pants. I went home right after work and tried the new white pants on with the fabulous light brown sweater tank -- and I knew I had made the right choice.
I was planning to wear that outfit this weekend. However (and here's the kicker), my back hurts and my uterus is currently trying to claw its way out of my body -- and we all know what that means. So, after all that, I think the black pants it is.
Linen Nightmare
May 11, 2000
Linen -- A Blessing Or A Curse?
You know those people who neurotically fuss with their clothes -- while they are wearing them? The people who, the minute they sit down, smooth out the front of their skirt; who take great care with the process of actually sitting down to minimize the damage done to their garments as they crease the material? The people who, even while they are just standing still, constantly readjust to make sure the fabric hangs correctly and in the most flattering way possible?
I am one of those people.
And, let me tell you, for people like me, linen is a nightmare.
It’s bad enough to worry about cotton or even denim (which can wrinkle, too, by the way), but for a person with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, voluntarily donning an outfit made of linen is a practice in self-hatred.
So, I’m wearing my all-linen outfit today. I never said I liked me.
The skirt is long and straight in a lovely shade of navy blue. The top is a light, summery shell in the breezy shade of white. Both items were purchased at Old Navy -- the linen Mecca.
I delayed actually putting on these items until I was completely ready to walk out the door. (Well, completely minus the clothing, of course.) I did this to avoid any unnecessary wrinkling as I was performing my morning rituals. I learned from the first time I wore this skirt, that the acts of brushing teeth, styling hair, putting on makeup and any other activities which require bending, kneeling or, well, movement, ruined the smooth front of the skirt before I even had the chance to walk out the door.
I had ironed these items with the care of a mother tending to her newborn, and then hung them up just as delicately, pushing aside the other clothes in my closet to give them their due space apart from the other closet inhabitants.
Then, I walked outside, sat down in my car, buckled my seat belt -- and it all went to hell.
Now, I’m sitting in front of my computer lamenting the fact that I must bend at the waist in order to do this and fretting that I won’t be able to get through the rest of the day without having to bend again. I’m not sure it can be done.
So, you may suggest, “Why don’t you just NOT wear linen?”
Yeah, right. And why don’t I just NOT breath while I’m at it.
Here are a few posts from the past that also deal with my struggles with fashion over the years...
Rustling Pants Dance
October 20, 2000
I bought some fabulous new black pants at Express the other day. I got all excited about them, as I am wont to do when I buy a new clothing item that I deem fabulous. I ironed them lovingly last night, along with the brand new shirt bought especially to compliment the fabulous new black pants. I wore this new outfit to the office today, feeling happy and confident in my latest wardrobe acquisition.
I continued to feel happy and confident until I got up to go to the break room to get my first cup of coffee. No, it wasn't my reflection in the darkened office window which caused me to be distressed. It was that fact that in this extremely quiet office, my brand-new outfit is very loud! Whatever material these pants are made of produces a sound akin to that made by an overweight person wearing tight corduroys.
The lower portion of the pants are flared (kind of like bell-bottoms, but not as pronounced). The extra material around my ankles swishes together with every step, like a cricket rubbing its hind legs together to produce sound.
I didn't notice it in the store, of course, because of all the hub-bub associated with a mall. And I didn't notice it in my apartment because I didn't put them on until I was ready to walk out the door (to minimize wrinkling), nor did I notice it while walking across the parking lot of the office building because of the street traffic running alongside the complex. It wasn't until I was walking through the half-empty cubicle graveyard that I became aware of the fact that I was wearing an outfit which was, essentially, turning me into a walking one-woman band.
People, these pants are effecting the way I walk. I find that I am taking larger and wider steps. I caught a glimpse of myself in the darkened office window/mirror and was horrified to see that the reflection was that of a lumbering chimp wearing my brand new outfit! So, I have only left my desk twice this entire day. These pants are holding me prisoner in my cube!
I feel that clothing stores should affix warning labels to certain items, alerting the consumer of the possibility that the article of clothing may be the source of an embarrassing sound situation. It is the only responsible thing to do. Until then, however, I would suggest that you exercise caution when purchasing suspect materials. If you find yourself trapped in your cubicle unable to even get up to go to the bathroom lest you disturb the entire office with your rustling pants dance, don't say I didn't warn you.
The White Pants
June 8, 2001
Yesterday at lunch I went in search of some white pants. For the longest time I have avoided the dreaded white pants fad and swore that I would never stoop to own a pair. They went against everything I held sacred as a woman of fashion. My main problem being that white pants are merciless. They show every single flaw. And, in my enlightened fashion state, I have shuddered every time I have encountered a woman who failed to see this. I was determined not to fall victim to this gross miscalculation of just how much fat can be stored inside a huge expanse of white material and not be offensive to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind me. But I kept seeing all these thin, cute, young things parading around in their hip, white pants and I thought, "Dammit! I can still wear white pants, can't I?" No, seriously people, I'm asking...can't I?
Well, as of yesterday, I am the owner of some capri length stretch lycra/cotton blend pants from the Gap. So let's hope she still can.
But, why, if I am so opposed to this fashion trend, and ultimately terrified of misjudging just what I can and cannot put on my body, did I buy them -- nay, seek them out like the last of the Pokemon trading cards -- in the first place?
Well, it all started with the cutest light brown sweater tank. You see, I simply had to buy this garment. You know how sometimes you just aren't given a choice? It calls to you from across the store and the minute you put it on you know that you are powerless to put it back on the rack? Well, that's exactly how this sweater ended up in my possession -- and 50 of my hard-earned dollars found themselves in the possession of Rich's.
So, here I am with this fabulous top -- so fabulous, in fact, that I put it on at least once a night just to remind myself of how fabulous it is -- and yet nothing to wear it with.
Sure, I could go with the classic black pants. But too many of my outfits are based on the black pants. And this sweater is way to amazing to wear with jeans. Whenever I have entered a store since the buying of said amazing sweater, I have searched in vain for the perfect pair of pants to wear with this glorious find.
And then, one day while strolling through the mall on one of my many lunch-hour fashion treasure hunts, I saw her -- a woman wearing a light brown sweater/white pants combo. And it looked great! It was then I knew that I would have to sacrafice everything I had believed in fashion-wise for the sake of this light brown sweater tank.
But buying a simple pair of white pants is anything but simple. The very first pair I tried on left me with the horrifying discovery that not all white pants are lined. What in the hell is that? Why in the name of all that is fashionable, would you make white pants that have no lining? Hello? Just what in the heck are the fashion gods expecting us to wear under these things? Any type of underwear is so grossly apparent you might as well be wearing them outside the pants. And any attempt at going comando could only be perceived as a violation of several indecency acts. Either choice will automatically ensure that you wind up in the back of Glamour magazine with a black bar graphically imposed over your eyes and carrying the dreaded label "Don't."
The other version of white pants that I came across in abundance, was of the crack-revealing, blood-circulation-preventing polyester nightmare club pants. There were plenty of white jean choices, but, as I said before, this sweater deserves better than denim.
So, after four pair of non-lined, two pair of insanely tight low-riding-slut-club style and one pair of 100% linen (which is just begging for anything to be spilled on), I finally found a pair of white pants, classicly fit, complete with lining, that offers both the thong or the comando option. So, yea, me. I finally own some white pants. I went home right after work and tried the new white pants on with the fabulous light brown sweater tank -- and I knew I had made the right choice.
I was planning to wear that outfit this weekend. However (and here's the kicker), my back hurts and my uterus is currently trying to claw its way out of my body -- and we all know what that means. So, after all that, I think the black pants it is.
Linen Nightmare
May 11, 2000
Linen -- A Blessing Or A Curse?
You know those people who neurotically fuss with their clothes -- while they are wearing them? The people who, the minute they sit down, smooth out the front of their skirt; who take great care with the process of actually sitting down to minimize the damage done to their garments as they crease the material? The people who, even while they are just standing still, constantly readjust to make sure the fabric hangs correctly and in the most flattering way possible?
I am one of those people.
And, let me tell you, for people like me, linen is a nightmare.
It’s bad enough to worry about cotton or even denim (which can wrinkle, too, by the way), but for a person with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, voluntarily donning an outfit made of linen is a practice in self-hatred.
So, I’m wearing my all-linen outfit today. I never said I liked me.
The skirt is long and straight in a lovely shade of navy blue. The top is a light, summery shell in the breezy shade of white. Both items were purchased at Old Navy -- the linen Mecca.
I delayed actually putting on these items until I was completely ready to walk out the door. (Well, completely minus the clothing, of course.) I did this to avoid any unnecessary wrinkling as I was performing my morning rituals. I learned from the first time I wore this skirt, that the acts of brushing teeth, styling hair, putting on makeup and any other activities which require bending, kneeling or, well, movement, ruined the smooth front of the skirt before I even had the chance to walk out the door.
I had ironed these items with the care of a mother tending to her newborn, and then hung them up just as delicately, pushing aside the other clothes in my closet to give them their due space apart from the other closet inhabitants.
Then, I walked outside, sat down in my car, buckled my seat belt -- and it all went to hell.
Now, I’m sitting in front of my computer lamenting the fact that I must bend at the waist in order to do this and fretting that I won’t be able to get through the rest of the day without having to bend again. I’m not sure it can be done.
So, you may suggest, “Why don’t you just NOT wear linen?”
Yeah, right. And why don’t I just NOT breath while I’m at it.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Secret Reader
Today I am going to read at L’s school. Meaning, I’m going to be the Secret Reader and read a book to her class -- not just go there and hang out and catch up on the latest issue of People. I’m excited! I love an audience. Especially a captive one. And while I know I can’t use my typical sarcastic humor on a group of five-year-olds, I still have plenty of preschool humor in my repertoire. I’m pretty sure I’ll be entertaining.
On Wednesday of this week, I went and subbed in her class for a half an hour. Yes, that’s the maximum amount of time I am allowed to be around the children. Judge’s orders.
The teacher was reading a book about football and would frequently stop and ask the class a question. When she read a passage about the crowd cheering, she asked, "Do you cheer when you watch a game? How about your Daddy, does he get all excited and cheer?" To which one little girl replied, "My Daddy usually slaps his hands on his face and screams, "Nooooooo!'"
That made me laugh. Partly because of what she said and partly because of what I was afraid she was going to say. Let’s face it; do we really want our children repeating what they hear their dads say during a football game? Or repeating anything for that matter. Kids aren’t very good at judging what they should share and what they shouldn’t. But, then again, neither am I.
Last week I walked into my bathroom to discover that Z had sprinkled body powder all over the floor and then dumped the container in the toilet (which was also covered in Gold Bond’s Medicated Powder). I took one look at the faux winter wonderland that was my bathroom and swore under my breath, "Oh, s**t." In response, Z happily began to chant, "Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t!" until I told him to stop. His teacher hasn’t mentioned his newly discovered swear word yet. But, it’s only a matter of time.
Anyway, back to L’s school..As we were walking out onto the playground another little girl came up to me and said, "Ms. L’s Mommy, I have the hiccups. Will you count to ten while I hold my nose?" And while I found it a strange request, I was happy to oblige. After all, I was eager to show off my excellent counting skills.
The little girl said, "Ready...go!" Then proceeded to take a deep breath and hold it in while pinching her nose closed. So, I begin to count. Then, I started to worry that I was counting too slowly -- since the little girl was, after all, not breathing. But, then I thought, "I don’t want to count too fast or else the hiccups won’t go away." And then, I started to think, "What if there are other adults around here and they see me standing over this child slowly counting to ten while her face turns red and then purple and then blue? I’ll never be asked to be the Secret Reader again!"
But, by that time I had reached the number ten, she let out her breath, thanked me and then happily went on her way. I guess her hiccups were cured.
Okay, I’m off! I’m hoping at least one kid will reveal some personal family secrets. You know, in case I need them for blackmail.
On Wednesday of this week, I went and subbed in her class for a half an hour. Yes, that’s the maximum amount of time I am allowed to be around the children. Judge’s orders.
The teacher was reading a book about football and would frequently stop and ask the class a question. When she read a passage about the crowd cheering, she asked, "Do you cheer when you watch a game? How about your Daddy, does he get all excited and cheer?" To which one little girl replied, "My Daddy usually slaps his hands on his face and screams, "Nooooooo!'"
That made me laugh. Partly because of what she said and partly because of what I was afraid she was going to say. Let’s face it; do we really want our children repeating what they hear their dads say during a football game? Or repeating anything for that matter. Kids aren’t very good at judging what they should share and what they shouldn’t. But, then again, neither am I.
Last week I walked into my bathroom to discover that Z had sprinkled body powder all over the floor and then dumped the container in the toilet (which was also covered in Gold Bond’s Medicated Powder). I took one look at the faux winter wonderland that was my bathroom and swore under my breath, "Oh, s**t." In response, Z happily began to chant, "Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t!" until I told him to stop. His teacher hasn’t mentioned his newly discovered swear word yet. But, it’s only a matter of time.
Anyway, back to L’s school..As we were walking out onto the playground another little girl came up to me and said, "Ms. L’s Mommy, I have the hiccups. Will you count to ten while I hold my nose?" And while I found it a strange request, I was happy to oblige. After all, I was eager to show off my excellent counting skills.
The little girl said, "Ready...go!" Then proceeded to take a deep breath and hold it in while pinching her nose closed. So, I begin to count. Then, I started to worry that I was counting too slowly -- since the little girl was, after all, not breathing. But, then I thought, "I don’t want to count too fast or else the hiccups won’t go away." And then, I started to think, "What if there are other adults around here and they see me standing over this child slowly counting to ten while her face turns red and then purple and then blue? I’ll never be asked to be the Secret Reader again!"
But, by that time I had reached the number ten, she let out her breath, thanked me and then happily went on her way. I guess her hiccups were cured.
Okay, I’m off! I’m hoping at least one kid will reveal some personal family secrets. You know, in case I need them for blackmail.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
A Thousand Men in Suits
This morning, my father and I are headed to Joseph A. Banks to exchange the sportcoat we gave him for Christmas. His arms are too long and his tummy is a wee bit too big for the one we got him. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I shared that info. And, if he does, then maybe it will encourage him to work on that belly of his. Love ya, Dad!
Anyway, the impending trip reminded me of a diary entry I posted in 2001. Again, it is sharing too much information about me, perhaps, but I think you all know how much I love to do that...
A Thousand Men in Suits
September 18, 2001
I discovered last weekend that I am extremely turned-on by men's clothing stores.
Yes, you read that correctly.
On Saturday, The Boyfriend and I went to K&G to find him a new suit (as he is a very important money-handling/business-y guy and must be dressed as such). At first, I was less-than-thrilled with the idea of spending my sunny Saturday afternoon doing this as it was an activity that had nothing to do with me and would not ultimately be beneficial to me (or so I originally thought). But, because I am learning that relationships require a bit of compromise and that it can't always be about me -- yes, I know, I was shocked by this revelation as well -- I agreed to go with The Boyfriend to buy his suit.
And, oh honey, am I glad I did.
A bit of background: For as long as I can remember, my all-time favorite "guy look" has been that of a suit and tie. Some women go for the fireman, or the full-dress Naval uniform, or the long, white doctor's lab coat. But I just can't control myself around a well-tailored suit, crispy button-up shirt and tie -- oh, baby, do I love ties. From the cuff links to the shiny shoes to the little, silk hanky that peeks out of the breast pocket -- I love everything about that look. Think Agent Mulder while on official FBI business or Rob Lowe strolling confidently through "The West Wing." Even as I young girl, I preferred the blonde Simon brother (A.J.) over the dark-haired Simon brother (Rick) because A.J. always wore suites.
And, drum roll please...The Ultimate Sexy Guy Look...suit jacket removed, shirt-sleeves rolled up, top button undone, and tie slightly loosened in that Darren Stephens "I'm home, honey" kind of way.
Oh. My.
So, I entered this massive warehouse-like building and was immediately awash with the strongest sense of male-ness I have ever felt. Okay, so I have felt strong male-ness before but never has it been this strong without the benefit of any physical contact whatsoever. The strong male-ness was an aura, a sensation -- it was an overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by thousands of men in suits.
I had laid my hands on the most beautiful Calvin Klein suit that I then handed over to The Boyfriend to try on. He looked amazing in it, if I do say so myself. So, while The Boyfriend consulted with the tailor, I wandered through the isles of neatly hung suits, pausing occasionally to pull one off the rack and hold it up in lustful amazement. I was in a daze, lightly running my hand over sweaters and shirts, picking up silky ties and letting them slip through my fingers. By the time I made it to the boxers section, I was a bit light-headed.
I told The Boyfriend what the store was doing to me. I wasn't quite sure how to read his response at first, but later he did promise to "model" his new suit for me. Oh, baby.
But, then we left the store and went to Kroger -- which quickly brought me down off of my men's clothing store high. There's just nothing sexy about Kroger.
Anyway, the impending trip reminded me of a diary entry I posted in 2001. Again, it is sharing too much information about me, perhaps, but I think you all know how much I love to do that...
A Thousand Men in Suits
September 18, 2001
I discovered last weekend that I am extremely turned-on by men's clothing stores.
Yes, you read that correctly.
On Saturday, The Boyfriend and I went to K&G to find him a new suit (as he is a very important money-handling/business-y guy and must be dressed as such). At first, I was less-than-thrilled with the idea of spending my sunny Saturday afternoon doing this as it was an activity that had nothing to do with me and would not ultimately be beneficial to me (or so I originally thought). But, because I am learning that relationships require a bit of compromise and that it can't always be about me -- yes, I know, I was shocked by this revelation as well -- I agreed to go with The Boyfriend to buy his suit.
And, oh honey, am I glad I did.
A bit of background: For as long as I can remember, my all-time favorite "guy look" has been that of a suit and tie. Some women go for the fireman, or the full-dress Naval uniform, or the long, white doctor's lab coat. But I just can't control myself around a well-tailored suit, crispy button-up shirt and tie -- oh, baby, do I love ties. From the cuff links to the shiny shoes to the little, silk hanky that peeks out of the breast pocket -- I love everything about that look. Think Agent Mulder while on official FBI business or Rob Lowe strolling confidently through "The West Wing." Even as I young girl, I preferred the blonde Simon brother (A.J.) over the dark-haired Simon brother (Rick) because A.J. always wore suites.
And, drum roll please...The Ultimate Sexy Guy Look...suit jacket removed, shirt-sleeves rolled up, top button undone, and tie slightly loosened in that Darren Stephens "I'm home, honey" kind of way.
Oh. My.
So, I entered this massive warehouse-like building and was immediately awash with the strongest sense of male-ness I have ever felt. Okay, so I have felt strong male-ness before but never has it been this strong without the benefit of any physical contact whatsoever. The strong male-ness was an aura, a sensation -- it was an overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by thousands of men in suits.
I had laid my hands on the most beautiful Calvin Klein suit that I then handed over to The Boyfriend to try on. He looked amazing in it, if I do say so myself. So, while The Boyfriend consulted with the tailor, I wandered through the isles of neatly hung suits, pausing occasionally to pull one off the rack and hold it up in lustful amazement. I was in a daze, lightly running my hand over sweaters and shirts, picking up silky ties and letting them slip through my fingers. By the time I made it to the boxers section, I was a bit light-headed.
I told The Boyfriend what the store was doing to me. I wasn't quite sure how to read his response at first, but later he did promise to "model" his new suit for me. Oh, baby.
But, then we left the store and went to Kroger -- which quickly brought me down off of my men's clothing store high. There's just nothing sexy about Kroger.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
One Positive Thing
Yesterday, as you may know, was not the greatest day for me. If you didn’t read yesterday’s post, go ahead and catch up…we’ll wait…
So, now we’re all up to speed on the poop? Great. Well, guess what -- he just did it again.
It was not nearly as bad as yesterday, but there was still poop on the floor and a smiling, proud boy was standing over the pile. This obviously means war. Bring it on, poop boy. You will not defeat me.
I was also unable to watch “Psych” last night since JAO and I got caught-up in the State of the Union address and all the backbiting, finger-pointing, empty gesturing, lame excuse-making, insulting rhetoric-spewing mess that swirls around such an event. (And that is not a statement about any particular party or person. It's depressing to see just how bad it has gotten on both sides of the isle. Bleh.) So, I went to bed feeling rather down about life.
Perhaps it was serendipitous that this morning I should pull up this old post from ten years ago…
Back to the present. Unless you hadn’t already noticed, when I was in my twenties, I wasn’t quite the stable, emotionally mature picture of mental health that you see before you today. I lived in the negative because, quite frankly, it was easier. And often it was funnier. Do you really think “Seinfeld” would have been such a hit if it was a show about four up-beat, positive, happy-go-lucky pals?
But, now that I am a happily married woman with two wonderful children, my life is much more fulfilling. Well, most of the time anyway. Okay, some of the time. Okay, most of the time I am faking it, but I do it for the children. (For the record, I have never faked it for JAO.)
In my own little way, I’m trying to foster this idea of positivity in my children. When I pick her up from preschool, I always ask L to tell me what her favorite part of the day was. Usually she tells me it was going out on the playground or whatever it was they had for snack. I continue to ask, however, hoping that one day I will get an answer that is remotely related to the process of learning -- just so I don’t feel as though I am plunking down $250 a month for her to play outside and eat pretzels and cheese.
Z has picked up on her repeated answer, obviously, because one day after school when I asked him what was his favorite part of the day he thoughtfully replied, “Um….go out paygound.” Only it happened to be a day when it was pouring down rain. Perhaps, despite the dreary weather, he was just trying to stay positive.
So I encourage you, as you go about your day, to try and find that “one positive thing.” I might not always be easy and sometimes you may have to claw your way through a whole lotta negative to find it. But, if you look close enough, it’ll be there.
It might be buried under the poop, but it’s there.
So, now we’re all up to speed on the poop? Great. Well, guess what -- he just did it again.
It was not nearly as bad as yesterday, but there was still poop on the floor and a smiling, proud boy was standing over the pile. This obviously means war. Bring it on, poop boy. You will not defeat me.
I was also unable to watch “Psych” last night since JAO and I got caught-up in the State of the Union address and all the backbiting, finger-pointing, empty gesturing, lame excuse-making, insulting rhetoric-spewing mess that swirls around such an event. (And that is not a statement about any particular party or person. It's depressing to see just how bad it has gotten on both sides of the isle. Bleh.) So, I went to bed feeling rather down about life.
Perhaps it was serendipitous that this morning I should pull up this old post from ten years ago…
One Positive Thing
October 10, 2000
I was introduced to an interesting bit of philosophy yesterday. I asked someone how their day had been, and instead of getting the automatic, non-committal "fine" response to my perfunctory question (which I expect, no, demand from people), this person proceeded to ponder his answer in search of an accurate description of his day. As I prepared to lecture this person on the proper rules of polite, yet empty, gestures, he says, "Well, no matter how bad your day has been, you're supposed to find at least one positive thing about it. So, what would that be...?"
He then continued to mentally review his day looking for that "one positive thing." If he ever came up with one I didn't notice. I was too busy mulling over this ultra-positive, frighteningly uplifting way of looking at life. Do you realize the implications of this philosophy, of forcing yourself to come up with "one positive thing" every freakin' day? I mean, come on people! I find it agonizingly difficult to come up with "one positive thing" to cover an entire year! But to try and eek one out every day? I'm sorry, but I just don't need that kind of pressure. Geez, being optimistic must be exhausting.
Back to the present. Unless you hadn’t already noticed, when I was in my twenties, I wasn’t quite the stable, emotionally mature picture of mental health that you see before you today. I lived in the negative because, quite frankly, it was easier. And often it was funnier. Do you really think “Seinfeld” would have been such a hit if it was a show about four up-beat, positive, happy-go-lucky pals?
But, now that I am a happily married woman with two wonderful children, my life is much more fulfilling. Well, most of the time anyway. Okay, some of the time. Okay, most of the time I am faking it, but I do it for the children. (For the record, I have never faked it for JAO.)
In my own little way, I’m trying to foster this idea of positivity in my children. When I pick her up from preschool, I always ask L to tell me what her favorite part of the day was. Usually she tells me it was going out on the playground or whatever it was they had for snack. I continue to ask, however, hoping that one day I will get an answer that is remotely related to the process of learning -- just so I don’t feel as though I am plunking down $250 a month for her to play outside and eat pretzels and cheese.
Z has picked up on her repeated answer, obviously, because one day after school when I asked him what was his favorite part of the day he thoughtfully replied, “Um….go out paygound.” Only it happened to be a day when it was pouring down rain. Perhaps, despite the dreary weather, he was just trying to stay positive.
So I encourage you, as you go about your day, to try and find that “one positive thing.” I might not always be easy and sometimes you may have to claw your way through a whole lotta negative to find it. But, if you look close enough, it’ll be there.
It might be buried under the poop, but it’s there.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
What A Load of You-Know-What
Today was not the best day in the life of Mommy and Z. In fact, he is lucky to still be alive.
The day had actually been going pretty smoothly until mid-afternoon. The kids were downstairs playing and I was in my bathroom organizing the contents of my hair accessories drawer. (I have a prissy 5-year-old daughter. We have a lot of accessories.) Anyway, I was happily organizing when Z came in waving his hands around and saying, “Yook, Mommy! Yook what I do!” Well, I smelled what he do before I even had to yook. The boy was standing there, stark naked, with poop smeared all over his fingers and hands. And he had the nerve to be smiling proudly about it!
My mind was racing and I wasn’t sure what to do first. So, I yanked him up, dumped him in the tub and dared him to move a muscle. I then went in search of the poop. I just needed to see what I was up against before I hosed the kid down.
As I approached the back staircase landing, the smell began to hit me like ape scent gloriola. The boy had smushed and smeared poop all over the carpet! Seriously?! What inside his born-with-original-sin head made him think that was even remotely a good idea?!
I turned and marched purposefully back to the bathroom willing myself to calm down. I discovered him still in the tub where he was happily smearing the poop all over the faucet. I quickly turned the water on and scrubbed him down from head to toe -- twice. When I was finished, I deposited him, wrapped in a towel, in his room and threatened him and his future children if he even thought about leaving. I then took a deep breath and steeled myself for the task at hand.
As I’m scrubbing the carpet, swearing under my breath and breathing through my mouth to avoid the wretched aroma, I’m thinking, “How in the holy hell can he play in this nasty-smelling stuff and think it is fun?!” I guess that’s like when a dog that rolls in the foulest-smelling thing they can find. Or when people sniff something horrid and then hold it out to you and say, “Oooh, this smells awful! Here, smell it!”
After I had successfully (at least I hoped anyway) removed the offensive material from my carpet, I returned to the bathroom to Clorox the tub and faucet. Upon returning to the bathroom, I discovered that in my absence, the demon child had not stayed in his room like I had instructed, but instead had come into the bathroom and written all over the cabinets with a yellow highlighter!
I went in search of the spawn of Satan and found him naked in the den with his sister. (It should also be noted that the entire time this drama was being played out, L was hovering in the background continually reminding me that she had nothing to do with the poop and was being a very good girl today.) So, I firmly told Z to get back up to his room. His response was to throw the wooden train he had in his hand at the flat-screen TV. Are you kidding me? It was at this point that he received a swift and firm smack -- okay, two -- across his bare bottom. (Yeah, I said it – I spanked him. Call DFCS and tell them if they have a problem with it I’ll let them come clean up the s**t next time!)
So, I marched him back to his room and slammed the door. Yes, I slammed the door. Not the most grown-up reaction, perhaps, but I think all things considered I think I was justified.
Since I really needed to work off some of the frustration, I thought I’d channel that energy into a workout. I hoped my anger would carry me through Jillian’s 30-Day Shred. And it did. So, with my workout completed, I went to the kitchen to begin dinner. It was at this point that I discovered that the Anti-Christ had gone to the kitchen, gotten the box of cous cous that I was going to prepare for dinner off the counter and dumped it all out on the kitchen floor. Do you people have any idea how tiny the grains of cous cous are and how impossible it is to sweep every, single grain up off of a white, tile floor? We’ll be crunching around on cous cous until the cleaners come again – and that’s not for another whole week! So, that little stunt earned him another smack on the bottom. (Yes, I spanked him again! Go ahead, call DFCS. Please!)
By the time JAO got home from work, I was so happy to see him that I elbowed the kids out of the way so I could run up and give him a hug.
Sigh. Sometimes being a mom is a really crappy job.
Well, at least they are all in bed now and the house is quiet and poop-free once again. Oh, glass of Merlot, you are my friend. Let’s go watch “Psych.” We deserve it.
The day had actually been going pretty smoothly until mid-afternoon. The kids were downstairs playing and I was in my bathroom organizing the contents of my hair accessories drawer. (I have a prissy 5-year-old daughter. We have a lot of accessories.) Anyway, I was happily organizing when Z came in waving his hands around and saying, “Yook, Mommy! Yook what I do!” Well, I smelled what he do before I even had to yook. The boy was standing there, stark naked, with poop smeared all over his fingers and hands. And he had the nerve to be smiling proudly about it!
My mind was racing and I wasn’t sure what to do first. So, I yanked him up, dumped him in the tub and dared him to move a muscle. I then went in search of the poop. I just needed to see what I was up against before I hosed the kid down.
As I approached the back staircase landing, the smell began to hit me like ape scent gloriola. The boy had smushed and smeared poop all over the carpet! Seriously?! What inside his born-with-original-sin head made him think that was even remotely a good idea?!
I turned and marched purposefully back to the bathroom willing myself to calm down. I discovered him still in the tub where he was happily smearing the poop all over the faucet. I quickly turned the water on and scrubbed him down from head to toe -- twice. When I was finished, I deposited him, wrapped in a towel, in his room and threatened him and his future children if he even thought about leaving. I then took a deep breath and steeled myself for the task at hand.
As I’m scrubbing the carpet, swearing under my breath and breathing through my mouth to avoid the wretched aroma, I’m thinking, “How in the holy hell can he play in this nasty-smelling stuff and think it is fun?!” I guess that’s like when a dog that rolls in the foulest-smelling thing they can find. Or when people sniff something horrid and then hold it out to you and say, “Oooh, this smells awful! Here, smell it!”
After I had successfully (at least I hoped anyway) removed the offensive material from my carpet, I returned to the bathroom to Clorox the tub and faucet. Upon returning to the bathroom, I discovered that in my absence, the demon child had not stayed in his room like I had instructed, but instead had come into the bathroom and written all over the cabinets with a yellow highlighter!
I went in search of the spawn of Satan and found him naked in the den with his sister. (It should also be noted that the entire time this drama was being played out, L was hovering in the background continually reminding me that she had nothing to do with the poop and was being a very good girl today.) So, I firmly told Z to get back up to his room. His response was to throw the wooden train he had in his hand at the flat-screen TV. Are you kidding me? It was at this point that he received a swift and firm smack -- okay, two -- across his bare bottom. (Yeah, I said it – I spanked him. Call DFCS and tell them if they have a problem with it I’ll let them come clean up the s**t next time!)
So, I marched him back to his room and slammed the door. Yes, I slammed the door. Not the most grown-up reaction, perhaps, but I think all things considered I think I was justified.
Since I really needed to work off some of the frustration, I thought I’d channel that energy into a workout. I hoped my anger would carry me through Jillian’s 30-Day Shred. And it did. So, with my workout completed, I went to the kitchen to begin dinner. It was at this point that I discovered that the Anti-Christ had gone to the kitchen, gotten the box of cous cous that I was going to prepare for dinner off the counter and dumped it all out on the kitchen floor. Do you people have any idea how tiny the grains of cous cous are and how impossible it is to sweep every, single grain up off of a white, tile floor? We’ll be crunching around on cous cous until the cleaners come again – and that’s not for another whole week! So, that little stunt earned him another smack on the bottom. (Yes, I spanked him again! Go ahead, call DFCS. Please!)
By the time JAO got home from work, I was so happy to see him that I elbowed the kids out of the way so I could run up and give him a hug.
Sigh. Sometimes being a mom is a really crappy job.
Well, at least they are all in bed now and the house is quiet and poop-free once again. Oh, glass of Merlot, you are my friend. Let’s go watch “Psych.” We deserve it.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Dieting for Dummies
Hi, my name is Regina, and I am addicted to Pringles.
Hi, Regina.
I have had a love-hate relationship with food dating back to my early college days. While it is no longer the dangerously unhealthy disorder that it once was, it is still a complicated relationship that is plagued by bouts of abject dependence and obsessive control.
I don’t like to exercise and I don’t like to sweat. I guess you could say I was a lazy anorexic. And I firmly believe that anyone who says exercise makes you feel good and is actually addictive once you get into it is crazier than a poop-house rat. (I know, I know, the original phrase is much more expressive, but there could be kids reading this.)
But I knew I needed to reel it all back in when I had an unsettling experience with a pair of pants. I was walking around feeling all comfy and thinking, “Hey, why haven’t I worn these pants in so long – they are so comfortable?” Then I looked at tag and discovered why – they were maternity pants.
So, now I’m back on the 30-Day Shred train. Choo-freakin’-choo.
In my quest to fit back into some of my old (non-maternity) clothes, I have sought diet advice from the Internet, friends and the cover of People Magazine. Oh, sure, the best tip is to eat less and exercise more. But, that’s no fun. Plus, it seems too simple. Surely an epidemic as serious as obesity must require a more complicated plan of attack. So, as another public service to you, my loyal readers, I have compiled a list of some of my favorite diet tips. (The diet tips are in bold. The smart-ass comments are mine. Shocker.)
Diet Tip #1: 100-calorie packs help snackers snack less. Do I even need to say why this one is a load of dung beetle poo? Who the heck eats just one pack at a time?? No, really…anyone?
Diet Tip #2: By switching from a 12-inch plate to a 10-inch plate, you’ll cut calories by 22%. Unless, of course, you just continue to fill up the 10-inch plate until you’ve eaten the equivalent of a 30-inch plate.
Diet Tip #3: Don't allow the bread/breadsticks/crackers/chips basket anywhere near your table in restaurants! Excuse me? That’s the only reason I go to most restaurants. Once, I went to Red Lobster and was told they were not serving their garlic cheese biscuits that day. Needless to say, I left.
Diet Tip #4: Since portion sizes are way too large in most restaurants, ask the waiter to bring you a carry out container along with your entre. Before you even take one bite, put half your meal in the container so you will not be tempted to eat the entire serving. That’s actually a very good tip. That way you have something to eat in the car on the way to the ice cream store.
Diet Tip #5: At the movies, buy a kid’s combo which has a tiny portion of popcorn, soda and a piece of candy. It's just enough to treat yourself, and a lot less fattening. Can anyone honestly say they go to the theater to actually see the movie? The last movie I saw had someone in it who did something with someone else. Or something like that. Oh, but I got a large popcorn that I had Karen – that was the name of the nice, young lady who took my order -- fill it half-way with popcorn and then add butter and then fill the rest of the way and top with more butter and I also got a medium Coke (and Karen was like, “Did you say you wanted Diet Coke?” and I was like, “No, Karen, are you on crack? You don’t drink Diet Coke with popcorn!”) and a big box of Milk Duds because it is really good to pop one Milk Dud in your mouth and then add a mouthful of popcorn and enjoy the sweet/salty/crunchy/chewy/chocolaty goodness that makes you glad to be alive. Oh, and I think the movie also had a dog in it. Or maybe it was a squirrel.
Diet Tip #6: Avoid alcoholic beverages as they are high in calories. Well, until I find Diet Bacardi on the shelf, I guess I’ll just have to do a few extra sit-ups.
Diet Tip #7: Phone a talkative friend when a food craving strikes. Call from a corded phone outside the kitchen, and stay on until the craving fades. Who the heck has a cordless phone anymore? And if you are calling a talkative friend won’t just sitting there mindlessly listening to them ramble on and on without allowing even one tiny break in the conversation for you to get a single syllable in leave you with plenty of time to snack? Just in the time it took me to write this, you could have stuffed three cookies in your mouth.
Diet Tip #8: Stand near fatter people. They make you look thinner. I swear to all that is holy, if I see any one of you standing too close to me the next time I see you, I will know why and I will smack you down.
Diet Tip #9: Smash your trash. When you throw food away, thoroughly bury it under more trash so there will be absolutely no question of changing your mind. No need to explain. Um, actually there is a need for explanation. Are there seriously people out there who are so tempted by food that they would go back and dig through the garbage in order to lick that last bit of frosting from the cupcake wrapper? You know, anyone besides my 2-year-old? If you are sifting through trash in order to find your next meal, perhaps your diet isn’t your only concern.
Diet Tip #10: Get a tan. A tan helps you look thinner. And while you are looking thinner, just hope that no one is paying attention to the sunspots, advanced wrinkling, and pot-marks in your face left by the removal of melanoma.
Diet Tip #11: Cross your legs at your ankles. Your thighs and calves will look slimmer. This only works if you are sitting, by the way. If you try it while standing, you’ll just look like you have to pee.
Diet Tip #12: Drink plenty of water throughout the day. Water helps reduce fluid retention and helps curb your appetite. Not to mention all the extra exercise you get from running to the bathroom all day. If I wanted to be plagued by the need to pee every fifteen minutes, I would just get pregnant again. And if I did that, then I would have an excuse to wear elastic waist pants!
As you can see, these tips might not be the key to your weight-loss success. But, don’t fret, my friends. I’m always here to help. I have discovered the one tip that actually works. This trick is certain to curb your appetite, strengthen your resolve and be motivated to work out harder than you ever worked out in your life. Are you ready for it, America?
Work-out in front of a full length mirror…in the nude.
Do this and I guarantee the next time you find yourself digging through your garbage hoping to find that one of the kids accidentally threw out a pack of Princess fruit-snacks with one or two of the chewy snacks still inside, you’ll conjure up an image of yourself doing naked jumping jacks. And then back slowly away from the trash.
Hi, Regina.
I have had a love-hate relationship with food dating back to my early college days. While it is no longer the dangerously unhealthy disorder that it once was, it is still a complicated relationship that is plagued by bouts of abject dependence and obsessive control.
I don’t like to exercise and I don’t like to sweat. I guess you could say I was a lazy anorexic. And I firmly believe that anyone who says exercise makes you feel good and is actually addictive once you get into it is crazier than a poop-house rat. (I know, I know, the original phrase is much more expressive, but there could be kids reading this.)
But I knew I needed to reel it all back in when I had an unsettling experience with a pair of pants. I was walking around feeling all comfy and thinking, “Hey, why haven’t I worn these pants in so long – they are so comfortable?” Then I looked at tag and discovered why – they were maternity pants.
So, now I’m back on the 30-Day Shred train. Choo-freakin’-choo.
In my quest to fit back into some of my old (non-maternity) clothes, I have sought diet advice from the Internet, friends and the cover of People Magazine. Oh, sure, the best tip is to eat less and exercise more. But, that’s no fun. Plus, it seems too simple. Surely an epidemic as serious as obesity must require a more complicated plan of attack. So, as another public service to you, my loyal readers, I have compiled a list of some of my favorite diet tips. (The diet tips are in bold. The smart-ass comments are mine. Shocker.)
Diet Tip #1: 100-calorie packs help snackers snack less. Do I even need to say why this one is a load of dung beetle poo? Who the heck eats just one pack at a time?? No, really…anyone?
Diet Tip #2: By switching from a 12-inch plate to a 10-inch plate, you’ll cut calories by 22%. Unless, of course, you just continue to fill up the 10-inch plate until you’ve eaten the equivalent of a 30-inch plate.
Diet Tip #3: Don't allow the bread/breadsticks/crackers/chips basket anywhere near your table in restaurants! Excuse me? That’s the only reason I go to most restaurants. Once, I went to Red Lobster and was told they were not serving their garlic cheese biscuits that day. Needless to say, I left.
Diet Tip #4: Since portion sizes are way too large in most restaurants, ask the waiter to bring you a carry out container along with your entre. Before you even take one bite, put half your meal in the container so you will not be tempted to eat the entire serving. That’s actually a very good tip. That way you have something to eat in the car on the way to the ice cream store.
Diet Tip #5: At the movies, buy a kid’s combo which has a tiny portion of popcorn, soda and a piece of candy. It's just enough to treat yourself, and a lot less fattening. Can anyone honestly say they go to the theater to actually see the movie? The last movie I saw had someone in it who did something with someone else. Or something like that. Oh, but I got a large popcorn that I had Karen – that was the name of the nice, young lady who took my order -- fill it half-way with popcorn and then add butter and then fill the rest of the way and top with more butter and I also got a medium Coke (and Karen was like, “Did you say you wanted Diet Coke?” and I was like, “No, Karen, are you on crack? You don’t drink Diet Coke with popcorn!”) and a big box of Milk Duds because it is really good to pop one Milk Dud in your mouth and then add a mouthful of popcorn and enjoy the sweet/salty/crunchy/chewy/chocolaty goodness that makes you glad to be alive. Oh, and I think the movie also had a dog in it. Or maybe it was a squirrel.
Diet Tip #6: Avoid alcoholic beverages as they are high in calories. Well, until I find Diet Bacardi on the shelf, I guess I’ll just have to do a few extra sit-ups.
Diet Tip #7: Phone a talkative friend when a food craving strikes. Call from a corded phone outside the kitchen, and stay on until the craving fades. Who the heck has a cordless phone anymore? And if you are calling a talkative friend won’t just sitting there mindlessly listening to them ramble on and on without allowing even one tiny break in the conversation for you to get a single syllable in leave you with plenty of time to snack? Just in the time it took me to write this, you could have stuffed three cookies in your mouth.
Diet Tip #8: Stand near fatter people. They make you look thinner. I swear to all that is holy, if I see any one of you standing too close to me the next time I see you, I will know why and I will smack you down.
Diet Tip #9: Smash your trash. When you throw food away, thoroughly bury it under more trash so there will be absolutely no question of changing your mind. No need to explain. Um, actually there is a need for explanation. Are there seriously people out there who are so tempted by food that they would go back and dig through the garbage in order to lick that last bit of frosting from the cupcake wrapper? You know, anyone besides my 2-year-old? If you are sifting through trash in order to find your next meal, perhaps your diet isn’t your only concern.
Diet Tip #10: Get a tan. A tan helps you look thinner. And while you are looking thinner, just hope that no one is paying attention to the sunspots, advanced wrinkling, and pot-marks in your face left by the removal of melanoma.
Diet Tip #11: Cross your legs at your ankles. Your thighs and calves will look slimmer. This only works if you are sitting, by the way. If you try it while standing, you’ll just look like you have to pee.
Diet Tip #12: Drink plenty of water throughout the day. Water helps reduce fluid retention and helps curb your appetite. Not to mention all the extra exercise you get from running to the bathroom all day. If I wanted to be plagued by the need to pee every fifteen minutes, I would just get pregnant again. And if I did that, then I would have an excuse to wear elastic waist pants!
As you can see, these tips might not be the key to your weight-loss success. But, don’t fret, my friends. I’m always here to help. I have discovered the one tip that actually works. This trick is certain to curb your appetite, strengthen your resolve and be motivated to work out harder than you ever worked out in your life. Are you ready for it, America?
Work-out in front of a full length mirror…in the nude.
Do this and I guarantee the next time you find yourself digging through your garbage hoping to find that one of the kids accidentally threw out a pack of Princess fruit-snacks with one or two of the chewy snacks still inside, you’ll conjure up an image of yourself doing naked jumping jacks. And then back slowly away from the trash.
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