Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

There comes a time in every woman's life when she knows she has to make a change. She has to grab her willpower in both hands, strap on her resolve, and call her mother-in-law and say, "We are going to lose 20 pounds, and I don't care how expensive it is, we are going to start by going on one of those goddamned cleanses, because I am tired of thinking about what I should and shouldn't eat! I want to pay someone to decide for me!"

My mother-in-law just lost 20 pounds, which is really impressive, but she also went through knee surgery while she was doing it, and that just too much effort-- a cleanse seems like a reasonable alternative to major surgery.

Why a cleanse? Well, mostly because MY MOTHER suggested it, and I follow her advice on most things. She looks fantastic, after all.

Secondly, because we have a friend who is a juice expert, and he swears by it. I'm not saying I'd go to the guy for advice on everything, but he knows his juice.

Finally, I figure I have lost the same 10 pounds about 10 times now, so I'd better try something different, and the idea of having the juice provided to me does appeal.

So today I begin. I have six juices that I drink whenever I want them, and it's about 1200 calories for the whole day. I hope I'm able to drink six in one day! I might be too full to finish it all! (I made that joke in honor of all you bitches who are unreasonably "full." My favorite is my Auntie J. "I just had a bowl of soup and I am SO full." Really? Unless that bowl is a mixing bowl, I just don't see it folks.)

I did not know if the cleanse would arrive today, so I figured I would start tomorrow. Which is why I had a brownie and tea for breakfast. However, the cleanse did arrive today, so I figured, "What the hell, might as well give this puppy a spin anyway."

I waited until 11:30 to have the first juice, being full on the brownie and mint tea. Not surprisingly, the juice does not taste like hot chocolate, but it wasn't bad. It contains romaine (I assume lettuce, not "Romanians") celery, cucumber, apple, spinach, kale, parsley and lemon. So basically apples and a bunch of foods I try generally to avoid. It's organic and has 110 calories. I should be hungry again by 12:30.

Actually, I'm pretty excited about the whole endeavor, which is why I thought I would resurrect the blog and share that excitement. Also, if I am going to suffer, I want you all to hear about it. I will let you know if I suffer from any of the side effects listed in the literature (some of which are pretty extreme and make the whole thing sound like a pregnancy--I hope I give birth to a 20-pound fat baby). I will also let you know if I lose any weight. If I don't, things might get ugly. Watch you back, MY MOTHER and MR. JUICE, and hope that the weight flows from my body like a river of greasy broth. Otherwise I'm coming for you!

Want to make a great time even better? Add The Big Dog!

This past weekend I was at my Favorite Brother's* Surprise 40th Birthday Party. The term "Favorite" might be a little misleading here. My Favorite Brother is not my favorite because I like him the most of my brothers (The Baker's the nicest to me. Hands down.). He's my favorite because when you're really up a creek without a paddle, he manages to fashion a paddle out of the cover to a cooler and a passing branch. He's a problem solver. My Favorite Brother has great ideas and they work. He just won an Apple television at work for having the best solution in a team building competition. When I need to have my roof replaced, or evict 300 bats from my attic, or build a bug-proof garage that looks like a barn, or handle the other crazy problems we seem to get around here all the time, I like to consult with him.

[FN: My Favorite Brother and I also dance together like a dream. Had MY MOTHER had a little more foresight, we would have won a number of ballroom dance competitions in our teens and twenties, and then went on to establish our own elite Argentinian Tango/Samba dance studio. We would probably be choreographing numbers for So You Think You Can Dance as we speak. Unfortunately, that alternate destiny, like so many others, resides in the dustbin of time.]

The term "Surprise" is also a misnomer. My sister-in-law, Ms. S, had the party at her home, and my F.B. works from home. She had about 1,000 limes in the fridge, not to mention stacks of cheeses. Of course he knew she was having a party! My F.B. also said that the house was just too clean, so he knew something was up. Ms. S keeps her house very clean, so I think the cheeses were a better tip-off, but whatever. [Whenever I vacuum or move furniture around, my husband, Total Package, accuses me of planning to have a party without telling him about it. He's right about 50% of the time.]

By the by, Ms. S threw a great party. The mojitos were FANTASTIC! Mojitos are really easy to screw up. Lots of people put too much mint in them, and then you spend the whole night with mossy teeth. Take a page from Ms. S and go easy on the mint!

The company and food were also excellent. We had a writer, layered bean dip, a professor of french, pudding cake, a dancer, mushroom tart, an interior designer, bruschetta, engineers, goat cheese dip, a doctor, chocolate dipped fruit, a mechanic, lawyers, and a guy in a toupee. Really, what more can you ask for?

Finally, we had The Big Dog. Ms. L set The Big Dog (a.k.a., my little cousin) up with our former babysitter, who is a dancer and built like a brick house. The Brick House is also a great person who is much loved by all of our children. My son, Mr. B asked me this past weekend, "Why is this girl at our house?" And I said, "This is your babysitter, Cassie. She's taking care of you tonight." He said, "Where's the Brick House?" Which is especially funny, because (1) The Brick House hasn't babysat for him for years; and (2) I hadn't even given her that nickname yet, little pervert must of thought of it himself. [FN: Just kidding, he referred to her by name. He does want to marry her, however, after he marries me and T.P. is forced to marry the kids' bus driver. I hope we live here, because I am NOT going to move after all this time.]

The Big Dog (not to be confused with my uncle, The Original Big Dog) has been dating The Brick House for a few months now, but we didn't realize that they were in Sturbridge for the party, so it was an excellent bonus. They also seem to be getting along well, which is awesome because I think they are both so great. Especially after the other night, when we discussed what we were wearing to the wedding, whether undergarments would work with our dresses, and how their relationship is very similar to mine and T.P.'s. Obviously, we'd been drinking, but I will always maintain that there's not much better than a hard-working Italian man who likes to stay in shape, so we weren't too far off track.

To wrap up, Happy Birthday to My F.B.! I will continue to tell people that we are twins and that your wife is older than me just to mess with them!

Big Dog, nice to see you in the 'Bridge! You can party with us any time!

Brick House, there's no way your dress for the wedding is as awesome as mine, so you better keep rockin' that body! See you at the batchelorette party!

*Note to all my brothers -- I love you all the same, really, regardless of race, creed, or color.

Is this bathing suit too small, or am I too fat?

I realized last week that I will be watching my kids swim every day for the rest of the summer. While tiring, this is a pretty good gig. I put my orange hat on, slather my white children with sunscreen, [FN: Mr. B asks for sunscreen, because like most men he is always looking for a free backrub, so I pretend to slather some on him, too.] sit next to Ms. L and spend the rest of the afternoon squinting and yelling, "That's too deep!," "Get off of him!" and, my favorite, "It's not time for lunch yet!"

The two suits I bought last year are not going to be enough. The "bridal suit," as I think of it, is adorable and easily ruined, being white and ethereal, like its owner. As a result, I don't really want to wear it to the local lakes, or more importantly, the restrooms at the local lakes (last trip to the lake I took children to the restroom about 500 times). Let's put it this way -- there are no attendants passing out mints at state park restrooms.

The black one-piece suit is good, but let's face it, it's been under a lot of, shall we say, pressure, over the last year. Certain seams and wires can only withstand so much. Also, let's face it, a girl deserves a new bathing suit each year. It's part of what gives her the courage to go to the beach practically unclothed.

So I turned to my life coach/personal shopper, Ms. L and said, "Why haven't you bought me a new bathing suit this year?" She said, "Oh, I didn't know you wanted one! I have a few that I found that are on sale, let's take a look!" [FN: Certain remarks she had made about my black bathing suit were what sowed the seeds of my discontent in the first place, so I don't know why I had to even have the conversation, honestly.] Ms. L is frighteningly knowledgeable about where to find good bathing suits on the internet. Much like The Girl with Dragon Tattoo doing a background check, she trolls around at high speeds, knowing just where to find suits for every budget, body type and need. It's a little disconcerting. [FN: I wonder how much teaching she actually does. . . ]

We settled on a gray suit that is very similar to my black one, and, in a leap of faith, an awesome black bikini. [FN: It has little see-through stripes around a square neckline. So cute!] Both were, while on sale, very expensive. Total Package did not believe, upon reviewing our credit card report, that I spent that much on just two bathing suits, but I had, and it was worth it! As I'm sure you understand, I would be happy to plate my ass in gold if I thought it would make me look good on the beach. Who wouldn't?

Unfortunately, the bikini is just a little too tight. This was confirmed by Thorn. I pointed and said, "This is the problem, right here." and she said, "Yeah, if you could get rid of that, it would look nice." Unfortunately, we were pointing to part of my anatomy, and that is not very easy to alter.

The suit may do its job and inspire me, however. The fed ex guy knocked on the front door just as I was dishing ice cream out to the kids. I took the suits out, put them on a counter, then dished out the ice cream. Then I had a banana.

Good Morning, Monday! Do you feel real?

I was on the phone with my sister this morning [Footnote: The other day my son, Mr. B, asked me if Ted was my sister. I said, "Yes, yes he is." However, don't be confused, this morning I was on the phone with my other sister, Ms. L]. I heard my kids arguing in the next room, and my youngest started to cry. She ran into the room, sobbing, and she said, "Mr. B says that Darth Vader is going to cut me in half with his light saber."

I told her that Darth Vader is not real, and light sabers are not real, [Footnote: Actually, someone, somewhere, has probably developed a light saber, and nylons that don't run, and alcohol that gets you drunk without a hangover, but we commoners will never see them.] and even if they were real, Darth Vader would not be attacking my Bean, because she is not under the auspices of the Empire, and as far as I know, has not joined the Resistance. Also, Bean really likes to get along with people, and is pretty understanding, so I think that she might have a shot at turning Darth Vader away from the Dark Side. Certainly a better shot than that puling, whiny wuss Luke Skywalker had.

Discussions about what is "real" get very heated around here. Total Package tells our kids that everything he likes, for example, E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark (excluding the last movie, which was a train wreck), the Fonz, Star Wars, etc. are real. I think it's important for my kids to know that a Southeast Asian man cannot use magic and chanting to rip their hearts from their chests, so I am a little less whimsical. I think that this is an especially important lesson, given that their pediatrician is from India.

I try to be clear without being repressive. I was driving through the countryside, coming home from my weekly trek to pick up vegetables from the CSA, when I had to try and explain a similar misunderstanding to my nephew, Mr. Pants.

Me: Look, boys, there's a pony!
Pants: Is it a pony or a horse?
Me: I can't tell by looking, it could be a pony or a horse, but it's pretty small, so I bet it's a pony.
Pants: Too bad it doesn't have a horn. We should get a pony with a horn. Did your pony have a horn?
Me: Those are called unicorns, and they're not real. They're imaginary.
Pants: But I've seen them on T.V.
Me: They are beautiful, but they are imaginary.
Pants: What about the pony with a horn on My Pretty Ponies?
Me: Those ponies are pretend - they are pink and purple and blue. Real ponies are black and brown and white and don't have horns.
Pants: Cows have horns.
Me: Yes, but not just one horn on their forehead, and ponies and horses don't have horns, like unicorns. It would be fun, but it's just in our imaginations.
Pants: I'd going to get a unicorn.
Mr. B: We should both get unicorns.
Me: Sounds good. Please get me one, too. I'd like a pink one.

You see how these conversations run. I answer their questions, but tell them they can believe whatever they want in the end. After all, you can't push Santa Claus on one hand, but turn your nose up at unicorns. People certainly believe in things that are much harder to swallow than unicorns, like frozen yoghurt, for instance.

I do draw the line at scary stuff. TP said that the fairies must have done something this morning, and Bean scoffed and said there was no such thing as fairies. A few moments later, when my oldest, Thorn, was describing a trip to a cemetery, Bean told her to be careful in cemetaries, because that's where zombies come from. I told her in no uncertain terms that there were no zombies. Later in the day, she ascertained that it is impossible to prove a negative ("But Mom, you can't know EVERYTHING, so you don't know for sure."). I therefore took a different tack. I told her I was really old, and all her grandparents and great-grandmother and aunts and uncles were really old, and none of us had ever seen or heard of a real zombie, so she didn't have to worry about them. That impressed her, mostly because she can't quite believe how old we all are. She was also talking about going to a cemetery with my mother-in-law to visit TP's grandmother's grave. I'm not sure if that is because she is now certain there are no zombies (which I am very confident about, honestly) or if she is just double-checking my work.

Back to this morning, while I was on the phone with my actual sister, simultaneously convincing Bean that as a non-rebel, she was safe from Empire reprisals, Ms. L was trying to calm down her kids. Her three-year-old, Cookie, had swallowed a penny, which his more cautious siblings feared was an instant death sentence. They were all screaming, "He swallowed it! It was a penny! It could have been a dime! He swallowed it!" Baby C was loading up the car for a trip to the hospital. Mr. Pants was trying to argue that Cookie probably had never actually swallowed anything, he just said he did, so he'd be OK. I think I am more likely to see Cookie eat a penny than to ride a unicorn, so I have to disagree with Mr. Pants on this one. Unfortunately for Ms. L, I think hunting for unicorns would be a lot more fun than hunting for pennies will be.

So much to tell you all!

As you all know, I was in Nantucket last weekend. Lots and lots to tell you all about that!

To summarize, TP and I were together constantly, and biked a total of about 40 miles, so we got some excellent exercise. We ate large bagel-ious and other starch heavy breakfasts (don't tell MY MOTHER), skipped lunch, and then had fantastic, huge dinners at hip, expensive restaurants. TP ate more than I did at these extravaganzas, though I certainly put in a yeoman's effort.

As of today, TP is three pounds lighter than he was before the vacation, while I gained three pounds. WHERE IS THE JUSTICE, I ASK YOU? I wouldn't mind if he just wasn't so damned happy about it. (Though I guess I do get a payoff, too, which I will probably try and collect on tonight, so I'm not complaining.)

To combat this distressing trend, I just brewed a pot of mint tea, and I will continue to try and flush the poisons out of my plump little body.

Other things you should know about my vacation:

I tooled around in a happy orange hat for much of our four days there. Bet you can't say the same! I know most of you are too cool for a little orange fisherman's hat. Too bad for you, folks! I can't wear sunglasses because I am hopelessly cross-eyed (Emphasize the HOPELESS -- I recently had this diagnosis confirmed at Children's Hospital, to the tune of $1,500.00. You would think for $1,500.00 they would have thrown in a pair of B cups, but all I got was dilated pupils and some sad head-shaking.) [Footnote: My Ancestry.com research (I have a lot of hot hobbies) has determined that my cross-eyes are of Irish origin. My great-grandfather, Dr. Lawrence Henry Goodwin Collier, a.k.a. "Dr. Can't keep it in his pants" named his illegitimate son Lawrence Goodwin. Turns out Dr. Collier's mother's maiden name was Goodwin. I was contacted by a Goodwin cousin, and they are all cross-eyed. I don't know if there are a lot of cross-eyed, Irish broads out there, but there you go, you know at least one! They also have heart problems and are mostly left-handed. Haven't determined if any of them also enjoy knitting and romance novels, but I have not completed my research.]

My HOPELESS crossed-eyes mean I only look out of one eye at a time, so I can't wear glasses or sunglasses, so I needed the cute, goofy hat to protect my eyes from the sun. It may not have been a perfect solution, but I bet I made a lot of friends/admirers, so I'm not complaining.

Another nugget I need to share with you:
Certain foods are very hot on Nantucket right now. Grits, for instance, showed up on multiple menus (I discovered I loved grits, not surprisingly, though I had not had them before. Or if I had had, they were called, "polenta"). Also, lots of confits, though it seemed to mean something different every time. As far as I can tell, they mostly used it to mean, "cooked, mashed up bits of meat." Churros and foi gras also seemed ever-present, which was a good thing, and probably responsible for some of those pounds I gained. Finally, lots of local veggies, including a kale caesar salad, which I enjoyed. A kale caesar salad is such a health food corruption, kind of like a wheat-grass cocktail, or seeing the pope give someone a [insert favorite sex act that you think the pope might be good at]. [Footnote: I would go with strip-tease.]

Last Nantucket Nugget for this evening:
Cucumber water. WOW! I'm going to buy one of those upside-down pitcher things, with the spouts? Know what I'm talking about? Then I'm going to have a lady party, and we are all going to drink refreshing cucumber water (which, by the way, is not fattening) and play canasta or maj jong or dominoes, (because I am open to games of all races) under an umbrella in my backyard. Seriously, I want to have a party just for the water. I don't even like cucumbers, AT ALL, in ANY circumstance, and I thought this water was delicious.

So, it's like I always say, you travel the world and you get a silly hat and fall in love with grits and cucumber water. Can you imagine what would happen if I went to a different state?

Anniversary Post

Yesterday was my parents' 20,000th wedding anniversary.  Seriously, they were married forty-three years ago.  Luckily for me and my inheritance, that was before I was born, which I have always found vaguely surprising, considering their subsequent inability to avoid conception.

Therefore it might be a nice time to consider how they've done it.  MY MOTHER, despite her strong personality and decided opinions, is actually very easy to live with.  She has good hygiene.  She practices what she preaches.  She has good posture.  She is rarely twitchy and never picks at her skin or scratches herself (probably because of the good hygiene -- there's a little life-lesson for you, kids!)

Seriously, though, as I sit here on vacation, waiting for my husband, the self-dubbed Total Package, to finish his work so I can go to the beach and get a sunburn, I think the thing I like most about MY MOTHER is that she is UP FOR ANYTHING.  Want to go on a bike ride?  Sure.  Want to have a drink or four?  Sure.  Want to host a few weddings?  No problem.  Want to make fifty fruit and coffee cakes for everyone you know every Christmas?  Time to put a smile on, roll your sleeves up and start chopping walnuts!

Now, you'd think most people would be that way, because it's definitely the way to have the most fun and get the most done.  If you don't go up to bat, you never hit a home run, dipstick.  However, most people are tired, or lazy, or pretty lame, actually, so they don't have evening cookouts on the beach or roller blade in the rain like MY MOTHER.  They don't ski like maniacs or paint their daughters' kitchens.  They don't call every like-minded voter to protect the Town's open space or schools.  And they don't laugh at themselves and everything else that strikes them as funny as they move through their day.

Bruce Springsteen once said, by way of my little brother, J Monster, MY MOTHER "has the heart of a ballerina."  I used to think that was a little prissy and delicate for my earthy, gardening, sexy mum.  However, then I remembered a ballerina's feet.  Nasty!  Those bitches go for it!  It hurts, but they twirl on, and they love it!  So I think Bruce and J Monster were right, and MY MOTHER and her heart are pretty cool to be married to, and to have in your life at all, actually.  I recommend doing something awesome with her, if you get the chance.

Mr. Lasagna, a.k.a., Daddy to a large group of lucky people, also has good hygiene, though he can be pretty gross on occasion (this site is too classy for any of those stories  -- quick two words -- bucket and boat).  He can whistle between his teeth, which he does when he is happy, and he pretends to know a great deal about wildlife.  This impresses those of his grandchildren that can't read.  Finally, he is fun to play cards with, as long as you remember that you wouldn't actually "get shot in Vegas" for dropping a card, something that has prevented me from braving that metropolis to this day.

Seriously, I think Mr. Lasagna is perfect for MY MOTHER because he thinks BIG.  If you are hanging with someone who is UP FOR ANYTHING  you better have some crazy cliff diving-type river rapids for her to dive into.  I also truly believe that if you have an over-inflated concept of what you can do, you often accomplish stuff that wasn't actually possible.  You can WILL things into being.  Hence the six kids (most of whom are pretty cool), the house expanded, the garage built, the tennis court built, the four houses built/renovated for his kids, the local laws passed, 1,000 + acres of land preserved, etc., etc. 

And he's funny (though not as funny as he thinks he is).  Which has kept them laughing and probably kept him alive.

Well, enough of this love-fest.  What have we learned today?  One, be UP FOR ANYTHING.  Two, you CAN do it (even if you actually can't).  And, three, try and get a good laugh in, no matter what you are into at the moment. 

I'm off to find TP.

The Coarsening of my Delicate Sensibilities

Once upon a time, I had standards.  I ate off my own plate with my own utensils.  If food fell on the floor, I threw it out.  I wore clean clothes that were ironed and in good repair.  I wore earrings every day.  I was positively uptight about bodily fluids.  I would say the same about my husband.  We were clean, well-groomed and proud of it!  Now?  Not so much.

I blame my children.  And it started right at the beginning.  Try giving birth sometime.  For those of you that have not seen a birth, it's not something you want to do on a white couch.  Or even in your home.  Blood, mucus, vomit, poop -- it's not for the faint of heart.

Then bring the baby home.  Suddenly, for the first time in your life (unless you are a medical professional or a pervert), you are being peed, pooped and vomited on.  My youngest daughter, The Bean, once pooped across the room.  She was a teensie little infant on her white changing table, on a white blanket, in a white outfit, and I took her pants off to change her diaper.  There was a bureau with a pile of white cloths on it across the room.  She she shot out this liquid, mustardy poop that splattered all over her, the changing table AND the whole bureau.  It was amazing in all the worst ways.

Do you let people you aren't boinking have a sip of your drink?  I didn't until I had kids.  I still resist it, but sometimes when it's a choice between giving one of them a sip of water or getting up and pouring another one for them, I give up.  And I was much more particular about my hair and clothes when I was the only person I was dressing.  Now if someone notices I've lost a button, I like to pretend that it "must have just fallen off." I have one jacket I've worn that way for four years.
Ever reached down a full toilet to get a tube of toothpaste or other dropped item?  Not cool, but often necessary when your five-year-old is an uncoordinated pain-in-the-ass who wants to "do it herself."  It breaks something in you.  The scary part is that then you have to defend throwing the item out, like you're the unreasonable one.

The girls are nothing compared to the boys, though.  As you probably know, my son, Mister B, is a gorgeous, sweet little man.   Unfortunately, hygiene is not his strong suit.  Many a time, we have found an unflushed toilet in the bathroom, BUT THERE'S NO TOILET PAPER IN THE BOWL.  Think about it.  It's upsetting.

On the upside, his revolting personal habits do pay his sisters back for the emotional torture he's undergone at their hands for the last six years.  This morning, my oldest daughter, who's self proclaimed rock n' roll name is "Thorn," ran downstairs screeching.  She explained that Mister B had overshot some pee onto the floor, and then wiped it up with a towel.  So far, so good for Mister B.  Unfortunately, he then put the towel on the counter and Thorn used it to dry her face after her morning ablutions.   The worst thing about it is that TP and I really didn't think it was a big deal.  We both PRETENDED we were upset to mollify her, but after she went back upstairs, TP said, "I almost told her, 'It's only water.'"  The TP I fell in love with would not have thought it was only water, but then, that innocent manchild had never have been forced to wipe his son's nose with his bare fingers in a moment of desperation, either.

I try not to worry too much about breakdown in standards.  There have been a lot of wet, rather disgusting kisses that I would never have missed along the way.