Tuesday, April 26, 2011
6 year old kids playing T-Ball is frickin hilarious.
I mean, I thought Dylan's soccer team was funny when there were a bunch of kids just running with no real rhyme or reason, only a couple (thankfully this included Dylan) actually getting the point that they must kick said ball into the little nets on either end of the field.
But T-Ball, is hysterical.
It's also an easy way to notice the attention span (or lack thereof) of kids.
If they are not batting or running, it's like watching a 3 Stooges episode. Kids all over the field, attempting to entertain themselves while they try to figure out what's going on.
I have no idea how the coaches do it.
There was one little boy at practice yesterday who was literally bent down picking worms out of the ground, somehow the way he was positioned while doing so allowed the ball that was just hit to bounce right into his glove. He was much too occupied with the worms to actually catch and hold on to it, but the image of it going right into his glove while he wasn't paying any attention had every parent on the sidelines roaring with laughter. It couldn't have been done again if he tried.
It made me feel so much better about Dylan, watching all these other kids, twisting in the outfield. Spinning around, standing on one leg and watching the "big" kids on the basketball court across the parking lot. Dylan was probably one of the most still. Which is shocking.
My kid isn't the only one who has to get asked to do something a few times because he gets sucked in to whatever he is doing, or sees something else and completely forgets what I had just asked him to do. I am not alone in having to ask my kid to pay attention to things. I felt vindicated.
Of course, it's comical when it's someone else's kid, annoying as hell when it's your own. But it made me feel like I am not such a terrible parent after all. That my kid is normal in that regard. (I mean he's still an odd duck, but he's normal as far as this stuff is concerned).
Watching other people's kids run when they weren't supposed to and inadvertently steal bases, watch them have to be asked by the coaches ad nausea to pay attention to the ball when someone else is at bat. Having all of them watching what each other is doing rather than actually attempt to play the game correctly.
And that was only practice. With his team. Throw another team out there with them double the kids, I can only imagine how that's going to go.
Tonight is Game 1, and if I can get a video of their Bad News Bears-esque style of playing, I will be sharing it for all the world to see. (And giggle).
Monday, April 25, 2011
Yesterday I ate like I had a tape worm.
Holiday's with my family are a literal smorgasbord of every delightful delicacy you can imagine. Easter is no exception. We are for all intensive purposes, a bunch of foodies.
Now, of course my fat ass (and I don't mean in the literal sense, I know I am not the largest lady on the planet, but I use the term "fat ass" when it comes to eating, and eating, and eating...you get the point) doesn't just take whatever the caloric recommended portions are. Nope. I pretty much sample a little of everything. And I am sure that within a 45 minute span of time I have fulfilled my caloric intake for the entire upcoming week.
It's a beautiful display really. Elegantly sliced ham, sweet potato casserole (with brown sugar, so healthy), Mendon carrots (with butter and cinnamon), twice baked potatoes (with cheese), some variant of pasta, the works. All on their own innocent enough in moderation, but piled mile high on my pastel colored Easter plate and BOOM! this is binge eating at it's finest.
And that's just dinner. (or Linner actually since it's more of a backwards brunch...not breakfast and lunch, dinner and lunch. You know, Linner.)
Then after what should be a brief respite (in all actuality is just the time after cleaning up the Linner mess) the desserts come out. In all their glory. Pastries and cakes and pies and cookies and bread puddings. A little something for everyone, or in my case a little of everything for me.
And now the aftermath.
Since no more gorge-worthy holidays lie on the horizon (i.e Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter....the Fat Ass Mega Feasts) I look at the calendar and low-and-behold, the next holiday is Memorial day. The kick-ff of the summer.
Meaning less clothing. Meaning more of my squishy self to be shown to the world.
Now in a mad dash to try to either fit into my warm weather wardrobe from seasons past (or *wink wink* but myself some new clothes...) I must make like a snake and shed this wintry skin. And by skin I mean fat. And by fat I mean all the area's on my person that could mimic jello.
Now in the grand scheme of things I am not actually fat. I am also not actually skinny. I reside in the lower end of average, but not in shape (unless you count round,...round is a shape right?). I mean sure I still house some muscles somewhere (like somewhere you need an X-ray machine to find). My legs have always erred on the side of solid. (Years of soccer are likely to thank for this one, so THANK YOU SOCCER)
Now comes the diet. The calorie counting, the smart snacking (if at all) and the attempting to burn said calories whenever possible.
I have already sort of started. In an attempt to look fairly ok for my friend's wedding a little over a week ago, I had been doing (thanks in part to a friend texting me my regime) these random arm exercises. (Strapless dress, arm wobble; you do the math)
I would use little hand weights, I would do push ups, I would do these awful triceps dips that make me feel as though my arms are going to come alive and beat me to death for putting them through such pain.
It seemed to be working. Now I just have to keep doing it. And I SUCK in the self-motivation department. I am like a kid with ADD that way. You need to constantly nudge the hell out of me, snapping me back into the reality that I am the one that wants this in the first place.
I used ot be good, diligent even. When I was out of work a couple years ago (although I am VERY glad to be working now, just saying) I would drop Dylan off at school and go to the gym. For 2 hours. Every day.
I felt great, I think I looked great (no conceit here, just an observation....ok maybe a little conceit). I would do cardio and random circuit machines. Being in a gym environment made you want to work out. Keep up with the Prosti-tot on the treadmill beside you. (granted when I was 18 and still had a metabolism that didn't loathe me, I would have been able to look good with minimal effort too, but that's a decade and some change plus a kid in the past so...)
So now, with a work schedule and T-ball and the hopes to keep a life seeing my Love and the outside world, I need to figure out a balance.
Hopefully the food will be enough for now. Or the lack thereof.
Friday, April 22, 2011
My mother used to say Dylan was going to go to the Prom with no teeth.
When he was a baby, in those first few months all other mother's I knew were dealing with the misery of teething children, my kid sat there like an 80 year old Redneck. Drooling all over himself and all gums.
I assumed of course he WAS teething based off the occasional irritability and excessive drooling and offered all the normal remedies that were told to me by every pseudo-experienced parent I came into contact with. Baby Tylenol, Baby Motrin, Baby Oragel, Hylands Teething Tablets.
I let him suck on frozen wash clothes and cool teething rings. I promoted his inner carnivore and had him gnawing on plasticy animal shaped objects that were touting ways to "Soothe your babies pain". I mean, I was sure any minute now from that 3 month old mark that teeth were on their way.
That one day I would wake and there would be a sliver of bright white gleaming through his poor ripped open gums.
I waited and counted the months. They all went by uneventful. I felt fairly odd as I would stick my finger in his mouth, running it along the smooth, drool covered ridge that was his gums, and walk away disappointed. No excitement yet of jotting down that momentous occasion in his baby book. (Which, by the time he was nearing his first year I completely slacked on and his poor book had many, many empty pages but I digress)
As he neared a year, literally, a tooth finally emerged. He was 11 months old when his first tooth popped up. 11 months old.
Kid must have gums of steel or something, but there it was finally. After that initial brave little tooth made it's premier, the rest followed suit. Slowly but surely.
So now I feel like I am back in that same saddle again, only this time I sit and listen (or moreover read via Facebook updates) to everyone I know with kids in the 5+ range sharing their stories of tooth loss. "So and So lost their first tooth!" or "Guess the Tooth Fairy is coming tonight!"
Screw you guys.
Dylan, now almost 7 (how this is possible I have no idea, as I am still in denial he is getting this old) has yet to lose a tooth. Doesn't even have a slight glint of a wiggly one. Nothing.
I mean, he has had dentist appointments, one's that had given me hope that someday soon I may get to try my hand at the whole Tooth Fairy thing. I mean, who doesn't want to add yet another Mythical Creature of splendor and wonderment to their Mom Resume?
They said there was a "slight wiggle" in one of those bottom teeth. Those stubborn little bastards that took 11 months to show themselves to the world. I got a feeling of excitement. He'd soon join the ranks of the toothless adorableness that came with losing teeth as a child. (Much different from the toothlessness of creepy old people who remove them and put them in jars beside their beds). Cute little gappy grins that made people "Awww".
Again, like a jackass, I would make him come over to me, open his mouth as I stuck my fingers in to attempt to "search" for the supposed wiggly tooth. I have no idea what sort of optical illusions these dentists were under, but I got nothing. Not even the slightest movement as I nudged my finger back and forth over his now sharp little pearly whites. (Him complaining the entire time of course.)
I mean sure I should be grateful that I am not getting sucked in too early to the whole Tooth Fairy thing, with inflation over the years and competition from what I hear from friends and the kids at his school he'd be in for some major bucks under his pillow, but I want that milestone. I too want to over-share my excitement on Facebook.
So my mother once thought he'd go to the Prom with no teeth, but now I am thinking that maybe that's when he'll finally get himself a loose tooth.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Yeah I know.
It's been a slackerish time for me in the Blogosphere. I mean, one would think that with the plethora of free time that having been laid off for a couple of months would have garnered me I would have been enlightening the masses on pretty much a daily basis as to the inner workings of my warped mind, but alas.
And no, I haven't even done anything one could call exciting. Nothing that has actually kept me away, I have just been, well lazy.
All of my computer time was applying to jobs and of course cruising on Facebook. It was all mindless really. The resume pre-typed I just clicked "SEND" and off they went.
But then, then after a brief interview (if you can actually call it that since it was with yet another staffing agency rather than an actual prospective employer) I met some of my old co-worker friends from my old job at Gillette in Boston.
I walked in feeling like a rock star. No really. I was greeted by a bevy of familiar faces, all whose faces lit up with smiles as they saw me. They were genuinely happy to see me. Really! It was nice to have been missed, to have been remembered a year later as some one they had formerly enjoyed working with.
I got the age old question "Are you back??" or "Are you coming back?" over and over again as different people did double takes of my presence in the company cafe. Sadly, I was not seeing anything on the horizon at that point in time.
I got a call. And like Superman ducking into his phone booth to transform himself into the Super Hero he was, I sprang into action. THEY WANTED ME BACK!
I was on my way back to the job I loved. Well, sort of. (even just typing the words "sort of" instantly brings me to my favorite Demetri martin joke..."'Sort of' is such a harmless thing to say... sort of. It's just a filler. Sort of... it doesn't really mean anything. But after certain things, sort of means everything. Like... after "I love you"... or "You're going to live"... or "It's a boy!")
I was going back, but in another department in a similar role. And yet I didn't care. I was GOING BACK!
So as the weeks narrowed to my start date, my 32nd (*GASP*) birthday arrived. Why is it that as you get older people expect your birthday to become a non-event? I don't know about you, but I kind of like having a day all about me (although many people I know seem to think I make every day about me, but that's just horse shit). Who doesn't like presents and being made to feel special? If they say they don't, they're lying.
So my birthday week was a nice one. The Saturday prior a nice night out sans kids with The Boy. A gift I had wanted for quite some time (A Kindle!!) and then on my actual birthday, another great dinner this time including the kids, my mother and my brother.
I have also noticed that as you get older, your gifts (even though usually by your choice) get more and more practical and less whimsical. I got a great pair of boots from my mother, which was about as close to whimsy as I got. I got my Kindle (which I have yet to put down I love it so much) from my Love, I got a Kindle cover and book light from my son (although I am sure my 6 year old wasn't able to drive to the store and spend his hard earned cash on it, so I know Ma Dukes played a hand in that one) and I got an expandable kitchen strainer from my brother (which I had seen in a catalogue at my mother's house and said "Wow that's cool!", which he apparently took as a cue and got for me)
Yup. You know you're old when you get excited about a kitchen strainer as a birthday present. I wouldn't call it rock bottom in the age game per say, but year by year I am on my Way.
So now, as of Tuesday (since Monday was a holiday in Massachusetts....good old Patriots Day, or more commonly known as Marathon Monday) I was back in the ranks of the commuting work force.
I was never happier to see traffic in my life. (Who knew?)
As I sat, slowly inching up the Southeast Expressway into Boston, I was happy. Things were going my way. I have an amazing boyfriend, a supportive family (who can obviously piss me off to no end, but for now they're on my good side), a healthy kid who's about to start T-Ball, a car that doesn't catch on fire (You can read back to December for info on that fun story in case you missed it) and a job I enjoy for a company I love. I mean sure my roomate may be moving out next week, but on the whole things in my life couldn't be better.
Keep the good stuff a comin'.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
People have always called me Kevin Bacon.
Not because I look like him or have starred in a plethora of random things, but because I tend to be somehow connected to the entire planet. Over the course of my almost 32 (GASP!) years I have come to know people of all walks of life, from all over and know or are related to half the world.
I was always what you would call a people person. Never shy or reserved. I would basically strike up a conversation with a lamp post and from then on I had a new friend.
From the moment I could talk I was charming strangers. Using random wit and candor and winning over the masses.
I always had people I could call on, or moreover who would call on me.
Plans were incessant. I was always out on the town with this group or that, living it up. The proverbial life of the party. I would dance like a jackass to make people laugh, I would spew sarcasm and giddiness.
It's funny how things change.
I no longer find myself fielding calls from friends. No longer asked random advice about this or that. No longer do I get those "What are you doing this weekend" kind of calls.
All those uber close friends, that spanned my childhood through college, are all married with children. With different circles of friends now. Sure we feign most of the time we are still the best of pals, but our social gatherings have more recently amounted to showers and christenings, and sadly parent funerals.
No more lackadaisical multi hour conversations about random things. It's a bi-monthly email or Facebook post basically checking our pulses.
Then there were those friends you needed to weed out for your sanity. Those venomous friends, who though you had fun with, somehow brought with them a wake of drama that in your 30's you knew better than to keep around.
And in that drama free zone, in that supposed zen-ness you had tried to create for yourself, much like the Neverending Story, comes the Great Nothing.
You find yourself a week before your birthday and realizing you have nothing left. No more of those people you once called your best friends. No more calls for a night out, or even a daily check-in on the what's what's and who's who's.
I mean sure there are a couple dieharsds holding tight to that, and they try, they do. But things are never quite what they were. They have their own lives that take priority over what once was. It happens.
You remember a time where if you ever needed anything, from advice to help moving, that there would be a line at the door. A never ending stream of people who seemed to care about you and whatever they could do to help you.
No need for that deli counter now. The ranks have all changed. Sure you still know everyone, but do they really know you? You can smile and wave and reminisce about the old days, the fun you once had, but then it's back to your lives.
I know that in time a lot of people grow apart. That old friends fade and new ones are supposed to be lurking on the horizon. Friends you've made from schools and jobs and through significant others. Your circles change, it's the way of the world.
But what do you do when those circles, those supposed infinitive circumferences just disappear? Leave you feeling you've no one to call when things are tough, no one to call when you just want to go out for a quick drink and chat about god-knows-what? What do you do then?
What happens when you wake up one day and realize its all slipped through your fingers? You just wake to realize you have no one left. That everything has become plastic and phony. All the real friends you felt you had have somehow faded into the background of your life. Not due necessarily to any specific event, but over time. Faded as the colors on a flag do in the sun.
I guess Kevin Bacon has left the buiding.