Category Archives: Activities

Excuse me sir, do you have anything for the Dengue Fever?

Note: This post has been in the making for nine months, kinda like a baby except it wasn’t baking to perfection. I am just a Self-Proclaimed Procrastinator of the Universe.

As many of you may or may not know, I turned fifty last April. DH is and always has been Numero Uno in the birthday department. He makes it his job to be sure I have the perfect birthday every year.

For my fortieth, he gathered fifty of my closest friends and family and a big boat and we cruised around NY harbor to gaze at Lady Liberty under the stars. How can you outdo that one?

By taking your wife on a much needed vacation. When he asked what I wanted for my fiftieth I didn’t hesitate to ask for a tropical getaway. I was in dire need of a real, live vacation with palm trees, blue waters, and sand. Oh, and margaritas and rum punch. Lots and lots of margaritas and rum punch.

A drink boy would have been nice too, but I do have DH and he is totally nice to look at. Also, he likes to bring me drinks, so he would fit the bill.

Ahhh

THIS is what I was talking about

My DH does not like traveling so I knew he would be less than thrilled, but it was my birthday wish. And birthday wishes must be fulfilled. It’s a rule. You know, in my rulebook.

After much research and reading every travel site known to man, I chose Providenciales. One of the islands of Turks & Caicos. Also, it was highly recommended by some friends and from my research it is known to have some of the best beaches in the world.

Who am I to turn away from the best beaches in the world? I would keep my toes in the sand my entire life if I could, so going to the best of them was right up my alley.

Also, this body of mine was depleted of Vitamin D (true story). Too much sun is bad for you. Too little sun is bad for you. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.

The Kid wanted to be a part of the festivities, so I chose a week in May after school got out and before she started summer activities. Three weeks before the rainy season begins there.

We rented a private cottage on a private stretch of beach. We could have gone to the other, more commercial side of the island, but in addition to needing a vacation I really needed peace and quiet.

Sadly, this is the only sun we would see for six days

Our private stretch of beach and cabana. This is the only sun we would see for six days

When we disembarked, the heat from the sun was enough to make your skin melt off and the sweat factor was set at 165%. We all arrived in jeans because when we left New York it was chilly. I almost had to resort to scissors to get them off.

Sadly, that was the last of the sun for a week. Just to give you an idea of what we were dealing with, it is said to rain six days a year in Turks & Caicos. We saw four of them.

This is why I don’t play the lottery. My luck is so bad, I would probably owe the lottery people money.

Did I mention the vegetation?

Did I mention the vegetation?

Now don’t get me wrong. Our vacation was very nice. Our little cottage was sweet. Private and quiet just like I wanted with lots of vegetation right outside our back door.

But along with vegetation comes bugs that were on an apocalyptic level. It felt more like we were in a scene out of “Them!” than paradise, so any dreams of sitting on our beach were quickly swept away with the first bite from a sand flea.

But I couldn’t really complain. I mean, we were in Turks & Caicos. Turks & Caicos, people.

Our beach umbrella turned rain umbrella

Our beach umbrella-turned-rain umbrella

Besides the fact that our beach umbrella was used to keep out the rain instead of the sun, we had a lovely time. We were together and healthy so that’s all that mattered.

Until the “healthy” no longer applied.

Let’s just say I used my fair share of toilet paper and my stomach was cramped up in a vice grip from Day Two until well after our vacation was over.

When something disguised as Typhoid or Dengue Fever or parasites hits you like a fast ball at a Yankees game, it could be a vacation wrecker. But who was I to let a little diarrhea keep me from enjoying my vacation?

18527747_1533950103306137_5883110691456930816_nI powered through. I put on my snorkeling gear and spent the better part of our week with the fishies. When you are in the sea, you can’t really feel the rain falling on you. Also, something about the lightness of the water eased my cramping.

Sucking it up, putting on a brave face, and drinking a margarita dammit!

Sucking it up, putting on a brave face, and drinking a margarita for the sake of humanity

Remember I wanted lots of margaritas and rum punch? I may not have had lots of either, but I insisted on ordering a cocktail with my dinner every night whether I was in the mood or not. I swore that is what I wanted to do on vacation and that is what did do dammit.

The obligatory vacation photo with feet

The obligatory vacation photo with feet

And I sat on my cabana and watched the sunless sunset and drank a glass of wine from the $30 bottle of swill we bought at the local grocer, because the cost of all things there is astronomical.

All whilst being bitten to death by mammoth sized tropical bugs. But hello? Private cabana on private beach. Bugs or no bugs. It had to be done. If even for ten minutes.

So, I must know. Does something happen to our stomachs when we age? I’m not talking about how it heads south.

That is more obvious than knowing mimosas go with breakfast.

But this same thing happened to me in Ireland a couple years ago. Hmm.

After having testing done of my stool (yes, that was as fun as it sounds) when we hit American soil, all things alarming were dismissed. It looks like it was just a good old fashioned case of Montezuma’s Revenge.

Yup, traveler’s diarrhea.

Swell.

In closing, when life gives you lemons, you add tequila. And Imodium. So, bring it on Monte. I’m ready for our next adventure.

Boujee is As Boujee Does…Or Not

“Boujee” according to Urban Dictionary:

“An abbreviation of the French “bourgeois.” A critical term used to describe people, things, and places that are definitively high-class. Something that is affected, inauthentic, gentrified, exclusive, and/or otherwise sheltered from the dirt and grime of the real world.”

The Kid and I recently visited a dear friend of mine (DFOM) and her step-daughter (Say-Say) who have a vacation home in Palm Beach, Florida.

We almost didn’t make it as there was a major snow storm (affectionately known as the “Bomb Cyclone”) heading our way the day of our departure. By the hair of our chinny-chin-chins, we were able to get on the last plane out of dodge a day earlier.

I still have anxiety over it.

I can’t say that Florida was much better in the temperature department. I mean, Iguanas falling out of trees because of the cold can’t be a good thing, right?IMG_9372

I’m just glad I’m not an iguana. I’m also glad I didn’t get hit by one.

My DFOM owns a beautiful home amongst the mucky-mucks. Something I am not quite accustomed to. The mucky mucks, I mean.

Well, the beautiful home, too.

Anyone who knows me, knows I am a simple girl with a big mouth and a loud sense of humor who can belch with the best of them, and laughs when someone passes gas.

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Told you so.

I mean, come on! My favorite Christmas gift this year was the Potty Squatty. Need I say more?

In other words, I am not refined. I’m basically a twelve year old boy stuck in a middle aged body.

Irregardless, I took my fake Louise Vuitton bag and Dress Barn clothes and faked it for all it was worth.

And I stood out like a sore thumb.

Nothing against sore thumbs, but somehow these people can spot one a mile away. My Dress Barn special and unrefined attitude just don’t make the cut.

Go figure.

Anyway, enough about me and my uncultured ways. Let’s get on with the fun stuff. So, what did we do for six luxurious days?

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It looks like I ate a sour lemon, which was the look really. Remember Mrs. Howell?

Read it and weep because I made more offenses than if I farted to the tune of “Homage for Satan” in church.

Wednesday: Got into the airport after midnight. Saw DFOM and Say-Say and ran to their car while it was still moving. Was told I didn’t have any common sense by the nice police officer. Offense #1 by internal 12 year old boy even though external middle-aged body knew better.

Thursday: Turned on the news. Laughed at all the northerners who had hell freezing over on them. Made a drink in an adult sippy cup, bundled up in a long sleeved t-shirt, put on head gear so as not to receive brain trauma from falling iguanas, and hung out at the beach. Forgot to “slough” my heels which was Offense #2. Let’s just say, it brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “well-heeled.”

You can get "dry" lemonade, but no wine, at High Tea

You can get “dry” lemonade, but no wine, at High Tea

Friday: Flagler Museum and High Tea. Offense #3: they don’t have wine at High Teas, so don’t ask. Especially when it is clear there is no bar.

Drove down the East coast version of Rodeo Drive called Worth Avenue. Laughed and laughed at all the ladies who spend way too much on face lifts and nail polish.

Oh, went to the Breakers, too. One of The Kid’s bucket list items was visiting the original Lilly Pulitzer store there. She’s boujee. Not sure where she came from.

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There goes my Mrs. Howell face again. I need to work on that. Notice the palm trees in the reflection of my glasses…nice, right? Yes, it was.

Saturday: Took a ride along the coastline in the convertible Bentley with the top down. Drove past all the richy-rich houses with Zillow turned on so we could faint with every price tag. 911 really should have been called.

Sat by the pool/beach (pool to the left of me, beach to the right) at one of the many country clubs DFOM belongs to. Got served by a really cute cabana boy who did pretty much anything we asked.

Tried to get Say-Say to ask him out, but she wouldn’t. Youth is wasted on the young. Offense # 4: Snorting while laughing is not looked upon kindly even though it’s a gift of mine.

Sunday: Spent the day on DFOM’s boat. IMG_9493Got driven around by a captain. Offense #5: saying “OMG YOU HAVE A CAPTAIN???!!!” out loud is not proper.

Monday: We slummed it by shopping at the little outlet center near DFOM’s home. Offense #6: there were no offenses made this day. I was in my element. “Slumming” it is what I do best. That, and snorting while I laugh.

Tuesday (day of departure): DFOM and Say-Say took us for brunch at one of their other country clubs, even though we didn’t bring a fancy hat. Offense #7, but really #6: Do not pile plates on top of each other when you are done eating. Also, do not push your plate to the side. Apparently, the rules here are different than at The Red Lobster.

Random photo of how The Kid's shoes match the comforter at the outlet center.

Random photo of how The Kid’s shoes match the comforter at the outlet center.

It seems I have much to learn.

Although, you know the old adage, “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” In dog years, I am 350 years old. I should be dead, so I get a pass.

To sum things up, we basically spent six days on a Hollywood set, except this was real. Honestly, I kept looking for Alan Funt to tell me to look into the camera.

All in all, it was a great get-away with good friends and a much needed respite. This life may not be for me, but it is fun to visit. I’m not gonna lie.

If we receive an invitation to return next year, I’ll be sure to be more prepared. TJMaxx sells Ralph Lauren.

Is Ralph acceptable in Palm Beach? Asking for a friend.

 

No Hold Barres Ever Again

A few weeks ago I took a Barre class with a good friend of mine. This Barre class really was of no interest to me.

Why not?

Because I’m embarrassed to say that the most exercise I’ve had in the last couple years has been random walks around the block with the dog, and twenty (really fifteen) minutes on the elliptical at the gym during my “I’m going to get healthy” phase that lasted all of two weeks.

So, how did I get roped into this Barre class thing, you ask?

The Kid and I were spending the weekend with a friend and her step-daughter. Every Saturday morning they take a Barre class. Who were we to stand between these ladies and their routine?

Besides, I soon found out that pretty much death is the only thing that could come between my friend and her Barre class.

So we scheduled a class for the next morning. Bright and early.

On a weekend. When I was supposed to be sleeping late, drinking cocktails, catching up with my friend and doing nothing. Let me repeat…doing NOTHING (all caps, bolded and italicized in case you didn’t quite get the gist).

Anyway, when the two young’uns woke up with liquid coming out of both ends due to eating a bowl of bad Acai berries, I thought we would be off the hook. In fact, I was pretty sure we were. You know, off the hook.

Remember I said only death would come between my friend and her Barre class?

It wasn’t a lie.

I supposed if two food poisoned-stricken young ladies could muster up the energy to sit (sit really isn’t the correct word here) through a fifty minute Barre class, then so could I.

I was wrong.

Upon our arrival, I warned the cute little class instructor that I was going to look like a complete jackass to which she replied, “oh, you’ll be fine.”

She soon discovered the joke was on her.

If you have never been to a Barre class (Is this even a proper noun? Is it really deserving of capitalization?), the room looks like a long and narrow torture chamber. With mirrors lining one entire wall so that you can watch yourself looking like the complete jackass you claimed you are (I certainly didn’t want to disappoint anyone).

Oh, and there are bars. Or Barres. Running up and down two walls. The kind of bars you would find in a ballet studio.

Except this was no ballet class. Not that I’m saying ballet is any easier. But I was in a room with ballet bars. I mean, why?

The instructor had us do some stretches. I think. I’ve blocked some of it out. I’m sure my brain went into protection mode.

You may think I’m being a tad dramatic, but I’m not. It was bad. And it hurt. It hurt in places that I didn’t even know existed.

During the first three minutes, I discovered that I could no longer touch my toes. The last time I couldn’t touch my toes, I was nine months pregnant. That should tell you something.

Apparently, the purpose of Barre class (there goes that capitalization again) is, and I quote, “to perform multi-directional dynamic movements to target different muscle groups simultaneously.”

Well, let me assure you that there were muscle groups in my body that were in a deep hibernating state since 2014 and they were none too happy with me.

It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase, “…a long winter’s nap,” don’t ‘cha think?

After correcting me seventeen times in the first twenty minutes, the instructor shrugged her shoulders and gave up.

There was not one move I could accomplish. I stood/sat/died there for most of the class, with my eyes averted. Looking on the ground pretending an earring dropped out of my ear.

And I don’t wear earrings.

I kept peeking around the room to see if I had a partner in crime. Someone I could be in cahoots with. Someone who was struggling like I was because, as the saying goes, “misery loves company,” and that expression could not have been more true during this fifty minutes of hell.

But nope, I was the only jackass in class. Everyone looked like they knew what they were doing and doing it well.

Even the food-poisoned young ladies.

IMG_8375After sweating through class, with my heart pounding so hard I was concerned the paramedics were going to be called, I realized one thing:

I am out of shape.

And not just out of shape. My body is completely deplete of any shape at all.

I am a fifty-year old woman whose body is that of a seventy-year old (I apologize to all you seventy-year old women right now, because you probably still look and feel better than I do but if I put the number any higher, I will most likely drop dead of a stroke from the thought of it).

When I get out of bed in the morning, it takes a good five minutes to warm up. My back hurts, every bone pops, and forget about my knees. Those babies are shot and are in dire need of a repair.

I can no longer sit on the floor. If I do, I resemble one of those baby elephants trying to get a feel for standing except the baby elephant has a higher success rate.

After I prayed hard for the class to end, it finally did. I glared at my friend and pretty much threatened her life. “NEVER AGAIN,” I proclaimed for the entire class to hear.

The instructor actually breathed a big sigh of relief.

There was one benefit to this class. And that is I realized how badly I need to make some changes.

If I don’t start moving my ass, I am not going to be in good shape by the end of the decade. I mean, even worse than I am now. And that scares the hell out of me.

Four years ago...FOUR lousy years ago! It took me over a year to lose 30 pounds, and mere months to put them back on. WHY????

Four years ago…FOUR lousy years ago! It took me over a year to lose 30 pounds, and mere months to put them back on. WHY????

How in the world did I let myself go? Four years ago I was running five miles three to four times a week. I could run circles around most of the young people I knew. I was thirty pounds lighter, fit, tone, and best of all I felt amazing.

Now?

I’m just a fifty-year old woman stuck in a seventy-year old body who can’t do Barre class without looking like a walrus trying to scratch his own back.

I don’t really know what that means, but believe me it can’t be pretty.

Cheers to healthier days. Maybe next time you see me, I will look less like zoo animals, and more like a woman in the prime of her life.

The Making of a Blanket. Or How Knit To.

When I was a young girl, my mother taught me how to knit. Or she tried to. There’s only so much you can do when your daughter is a lefty and can’t do so much as wipe her own face with her right hand.

We got as far as the knit stitch. My mom had to cast on and off for every project I did. That is, if you want to call my fifteen 7″ x 1″ Barbie scarves a “project.”

I will say this though: My Barbies had the warmest necks this side of the Hudson.

But as quickly as my new hobby started, it stopped. That was it. Done by the tender age of ten.

Until I saw something on the inter-webs last October and decided it was time to revisit that old forty-year dead hobby of mine. Except I didn’t remember how. And even if I did, I would only be able to do the knit stitch.

I had a friend who I knew would be able to get me started. Also, I know you can learn how to do anything from building a car engine to how to clean your toilet with Coca-Cola on YouTube.

Long Live YouTube.

I called my mom who immediately packed up all her knitting accoutrements, from needles to patterns, and put them in the mail to me. I could almost hear her say, “Sucker!” Because what I was really doing was helping her clean out her junk room.

I’m on to you, mom.

Anyway, I was going to be THE knitting phenom. I was going to have this untapped talent. I would be able to make everything from blankets to sweaters with those little sheep patterns on them.

I’m not quite sure what gave me this impression. Maybe because I’m really good at coloring inside the lines. Or it could be because art class was one of the classes I didn’t cut in high school.

Who knows? But I was pretty sure I was going to be good. Even though I hadn’t held a pair of knitting needles in my hands since 1977.

It turns out I wasn’t a knitting phenom. It wasn’t a God-given talent. If that’s even a thing. But more on that in a minute.

So, what exactly gave me the inspiration, after nearly forty years, to pick up my (mom’s) knitting needles again?

It would be this:

My Inspiration

Evil, horrible liar.

It all started with an accidental peek at a chunky blanket I spied on Pinterest. Or Etsy. Okay, I’m not sure where I saw it. It just saw it. Somewhere. And “they” said it would only take 4-5 hours to make.

A piece of cake.

Like I said, I had an epiphany and was 110% sure I could do this and do this well.

Me. The girl who uses the side view mirror of her car to pick off random mailboxes. The girl who has more squirrels running around in her brain than all of the Connecticut backwoods combined.

Anyway, I just HAD to knit one for my daughter for Christmas, who happens to be away at college.

I thought she could snuggle and think of her dear mommy every time she used it.

Because that is precisely what eighteen year olds do. Right? Right?

That friend of mine cast on for me and taught me how to do the purl stitch. We started with thirty-two stitches. After three days, I managed to increase it to forty-one.

I don’t know so don’t ask.

After approximately seven rows in, I decided to rip it all out. Because chances are I would have increased in stitches even more and my blanket would resemble a trapezoid something or other (thank you, Google) then, well, a blanket.

Holier than thou

Hole-ier than thou

Also, I kept forgetting if I was supposed to be purling or knitting. So in addition to it being asymmetrical, it would be bumpy too. You know, kind of like my middle aged body.

Two words: not pretty.

Now of course I could only rip it out to the cast-on row, that first row, because I didn’t know how to cast on (yeah, I know..YouTube. Well, I forgot to look. Squirrel).

Then I decided to completely change the pattern. By accident, of course. The actual only decision-making was the act of choosing to take this project on. The rest just had a mind of its own.

My attempt to be organized. Those red splotches is spilled wine. Wine and knitting. Maybe that's where I went wrong.

My attempt to be organized. Those red splotches is spilled wine. Wine and knitting. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.

Somewhere in there, I realized I didn’t like the knitting needles I was using so I hit Amazon and got myself new ones. And then didn’t like them, so I went back to the originals.

So far I have increased stitches, ripped, changed the pattern by accident, and switched needles. Twice.

A blanket pattern that claimed it would only take a half day of daylight hours to knit was now my life’s job. And it took almost my whole life to make the thing. Okay, so two months.

Christmas was fast approaching and my anxiety level was increasing. Not to mention the tension in my shoulders and back. Where is it said knitting is therapeutic? Sure. If you like to be tortured. I know a bed made of nails that is more relaxing.

Anyway,  after hours and many weeks, this is the finished product. I, at least owe you a good laugh:

finished blanket

Not really sure what that line is, but this blanket is one of a kind. I like to call it Couture.

So, have I hung up my knitting needles? No. Because practice makes perfect, right?

We’ll see because I’m making all my nieces and nephews who are having babies, a baby blanket. Whether they like it or not. I apologize in advance, but you know, I’m an expert.

A Pointless Post About Dust

unknown-1“Where does dust come from?” This is a question that was rhetorically asked in a writing course I recently participated in. And because I am who I am, I remembered that I have always wondered that same thing myself.

I have a fairly large, dark wood coffee table in my living room. I love this table. Of course. I would not have chosen it to grace my living room and look at it every day if I didn’t. It has a big shiny surface. Which happens to be its only flaw.

Why is it a flaw? Because I can spend 5 minutes dusting the balls out of that thing and a mere few hours later? Dust. All over it.

And when the sun is coming through the windows just so (I love the sun coming through my windows, but only when no one is here, including myself), you can see it float down and land right on the surface of that newly dusted table and every single, ever-loving item in my house.

So, where does dust come from exactly? I wasn’t sure, so I looked it up. For all those who are like me and wander into strange places while thinking, or if you missed that day in fifth grade science class, here is where dust comes from. You’re welcome.

As taken from wiseGEEK (www.wisegeek.org):

“…it is largely made up of dead skin cells, fibers from clothing and other materials, pollen and dander, and tiny particles of dirt. Dust comes from objects in the environment, and from the people and animals that live in it.”

Upon further research, I found out that the average person loses about 40 dead skin cells every second. Most of that thin layer of white stuff you see building up on your furniture? It’s dead skin of you and whoever else lives in or visits your home.

So, basically you have little pieces of pretty much everyone you know in the air that you are breathing. Through your nostrils and into your lungs. That thought makes me want to go out and purchase one of those Walter White type masks. No offense.

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I guess no one has has actually died from breathing in other people’s dead skin cells, so I suppose I’ll just have to suck it up (pardon the pun). I mean, I’ve survived the first forty-nine years of my life living this way. I think I can survive the next uh…forty-nine (it’s possible).

In the meantime, I believe I’ll be investing in some more Pledge. Oh, and can you do me a favor before coming over next time? Slather up with some body lotion, would you? Like, maybe bathe in it? I just really hate dusting.

They Should Leave the Heat Up to Nature

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She’s going down.

I tried yoga once a very long time ago. I hated everything about it. I hated the way I had to put my body in ways I didn’t think was natural. I hated the way I had to clear my mind and be present. Everyone who knows me, knows I have squirrel brain. I especially hated the whole “ohm” thing. No way, sister. No way.

I am not a serious person. I could not get through that yoga class without giggling. That day long ago, I promised myself that I would never ever step foot inside of a yoga studio again. Ever.

So, when my friend asked me if I wanted to meet her for some hot yoga, my first inclination was to say “NO.” It was on the tip of my tongue. But she had a coupon. 2 weeks of unlimited classes for 20 bucks. If someone gave me a coupon for free cow balls, I would take it.

“Sure,” I said to my friend. “I’ll go, but if someone farts, I’m out.”

After I grabbed one of their mats, I chose a spot at the very back. I was so pushed up against the wall, the teacher reprimanded me. Something about not being able to stretch out properly. “Horse shit,’ I said to myself. Although I quickly came to realize that she was correct.

That first day was on New Year’s Eve. It was cold in my town. Below freezing with the wind chill. You’d think I would have welcomed the hot air after coming in from that cold, but I didn’t. I felt like I was suffocating. Remember, I’m peri-menopausal. Anything above 65 pretty much makes me break out in a hot sweat. I swear the thermostat in there was set at 790 degrees.

It started out with the instructor telling us to breathe and release the tension and worries of our day. She wanted us to clear our minds.

I peeked out of one eyeball, looking around the room. Everyone seemed to be doing it. So, I closed my eye again and tried to follow suit. Somehow, my mind went from “how long have we been here” to “I hope A. makes that really awesome pineapple infused vodka tonight” to “hmm, I wonder if pineapple is even in season?” to “I should have moisturized my feet better.” Squirrel.

So, we’ve established that I cannot clear my mind. Next.

The dreaded “ohm” moment came. Like I said, no way, sister. And I didn’t. I totally faked it. Which was fine because the guy next to me was so into it, his ohm’ing was the only ohm’ing you could hear for miles. I refused to look at my friend, because I knew I would start giggling. I know, very disrespectful, not to mention childish. But I held it together.

Then the contortionist shit came. I heard words like upward dog, downward dog, child pose, warrior 1, warrior 2, warrior 3, triangle, wheel, tree, something about achunga or muchinga or whatever. I was off-balance and extremely ungraceful. Like Honey Bob-Boo trying to do a pirouette.

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Me and my doggy bitten mat after a hot yoga session

Day 2 I had to borrow their mat again. I did have one at home but it’s thick and one corner of it got attacked by a dog. And I don’t even have a dog, so go figure.

I brought my doggy bitten mat on Day 3 but it got kicked out of class because it was slipping a little. Although I think they are just mat snobs. “Oh, I don’t think this is for me,” I kept saying to myself.

On Day 4, I had to borrow their mat again. Day 4 was also a transitional day for me. I actually left there feeling that I could possibly get into this yoga thing. Possibly. When I told my friend this news, she nearly fell over from a heart attack. Even though I said “possibly.”

I don’t know how it happened. The stretching felt incredibly good. The deep breathing is amazing. The heat? I could do without the heat. I swear to you, I was sweating more than a pig on a spit. No lie. You could have filled a bathtub with my sweat. But the best part? I think I may have burned 350 calories. That right there is a margarita and a half my friends.

By day 4 I was able to get into some of the poses. Not wheel or that half headstand thing where you rest your knees on your elbows, but I could stand on one foot without falling over like an anorexic caught in a stiff breeze.

I can honestly tell you that I’m pretty sure I will never, ever be able to move my body like that. If I do, I’ll let you know. You might want to purchase tickets to see it. It will be that much of a mind blow.

So, will I be going back? I think I will. After I get my own mat, of course. But do you think they could turn down the heat just a tad? What did you say? Oh, is that why they call it HOT yoga? Never mind.

Oh Sleep, Why Do You Forsaken Me?

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Yeah, I’m pretty sure this isn’t true.

I am a sleeper. Except for the very rare occasion that I cannot get my slumber on. When I say “rare,” I mean “rare” as in the number of kangaroos there are in Connecticut. In other words, I sleep. And I do it well.

I am of the laid-back ilk. Sure, I could have things on my mind, but once my head hits that pillow, it all goes into a little secret compartment somewhere. I’m not really sure where that compartment is. I think about that about as much as I do my thoughts when I’m sleeping. In case you missed it, that is never.

Anyway, at 3am this morning, my eyes flew open like a pair of French doors during a Texan hurricane. And every freaking thought known to man came crawling out of that little secret compartment, wherever it is, and started mocking me.

What were my thoughts? Let me tell you.

  • “Super Bad” wasn’t as good as people said it was. In fact, it was kind of stupid. But damn, that guy Seth reminds me of someone I know.
  • Ugh, I still have to get my damn Christmas village out. Can’t I skip it this year? No, no. The Kid will get upset. It’s all about her. Oh screw that. I don’t want to put it out. Okay, I will.
  • What kind of dairy free cookies can I bake? But they’ll probably taste like shit. Maybe I’ll do it next year. Ok, I’ll do it next year. Oh, but then I’ll feel bad.
  • I probably should go to church. Think there are any names left on the Giving Tree that aren’t for hotel sized shampoo bottles for the homeless shelter?
  • I should check Facebook. I’m pretty sure I got a couple hundred new followers while I lie here not sleeping. I’m sure of it.
  • I wonder if Kohl’s is having a sale on comforters. I should get one. It’s good to have extra comforters.
  • Speaking of comforters, I need to change the sheets.
  • I used to love roller skating. I should go roller skating. Where can I go roller skating? Oh, I’ll probably make an ass of myself or get hurt. Never mind.
  • My nose is whistling. Why don’t I have tissues on my night stand? But then I might wake up DH. I should just get up.
  • I wonder if I still snore. Hmm, I probably should go see someone about that. But then what if I have to have surgery or something. It might hurt. I can live with my snoring.
  • My nose is still whistling. I have to pee. I should really just get up.
  • I’m not going to church. I’m too tired.
  • Eww, my stomach is really flabby.

And then I got up. I peed and blew my nose. I went downstairs on the couch and looked at Facebook. I didn’t get hundreds of new followers, but I did get 4. I announced to the world that I can’t sleep and had a short conversation with a couple of other insomniacs.

I was amazed at how anxious I felt. I felt the urge to go check on The Kid. Something I hadn’t done in at least 3 months. I had to fight the feeling. Okay, so I did look in her room. But I couldn’t see anything because it was dark.

Then I finally fell asleep. At around 6am (I think). When I woke at around 10, it felt like someone hit me with a Mack truck. The feeling was very reminiscent of when I worked in My Retail Job. Which translates to “I never want to do that again.”

The next time I can’t sleep? NyQuil should do the trick. I’m just hoping I don’t need to start buying stock in it. That would royally suck.

 

 

 

It Feels Like the First Time

Note to Dad: This post is about S-E-X and a certain daughter of yours. Do not read any further if you think you might have nightmares. You have been duly warned.

That's right brother, don't you touch me or I will CUT you.

That’s right brother, don’t you touch me or I will CUT you.

When people talk about sex after kids, the first thing that comes to my mind is not sex after kids, but sex after babies. Like right after. It’s been a long time. I mean, it’s been a long time since I gave birth to my kid. 16 years, 4 months and 10 days to be exact.

So, can I legitimately talk about this subject? Do I have the right? Damn straight I do. Because having sex for the first time after healing from childbirth is like having someone clean out your insides with a scythe that has been wrapped in 60 grit sandpaper. Sure, that sounds pretty painful. That’s because it is.

Not something soon to be forgotten with time. No matter what they say. It’s a lie. Like saying that you will soon forget about the pain of pushing an 8 pound person out of your nether-area. Your lady jewels. Your motherly loins. That, too, is a lie. Because 16 years, 4 months and 10 days later I remember that shit as if it happened just yesterday. It’s as fresh as a daisy in the subconsciousness of my mind.

I dreaded it. “Six weeks” the good doctor said. When I arrived home after my postpartum appointment and the hubs was waiting with baded breath, looking for the green light, I should have lied. Six months probably would have been more like it.

I wasn’t dreading it because I dislike sex. I was dreading it because I know precisely what went on down below during childbirth. Things got pulled, stretched and ripped in places that should NEVER have been…well, at least ripped. Apparently, pulled and stretched is acceptable given the fact that we are the lucky God-chosen gender to have been given the gift of child bearing. But I digress.

Between walking like a stud with the biggest set of scrotums known to man for 2 weeks to avoid any chafing and spending 3/4 of my time sitting on a sitz-bath for 10 days to relieve the horrid pain exuding from my bottom, the last thing I needed was to have all that down there invaded by the exact thing that got me in that situation in the first place.

No, I wasn’t holding any grudges. It wasn’t his fault that this was how we chose to have a family. We both agreed to it. We did. But dang, a little advanced notice would have been nice. You know, maybe before we got into this situation called being pregnant?

The light turned GREEN and it was game time. The pain made my toes curl, took the breath out of me, made me want to cry out for my mama. But I didn’t do that. Cry out for my mama. That would have been weird. And a major buzz kill.

But don’t worry. After that first time, all is well. Every time after that is hunky-dory. Back to normal. Have all the sex you want. Well, that is if you can come out of your lack-of-sleep induced coma from having a newborn wake you up at all ungodly hours of the night. Then by all means, carry on. You’re a trooper.

Girl’s Get-Away

At My Job, I have been helping to organize an all-women’s weekend retreat. This has been a dream of my Friend Boss (Susie) for a long time. Susie has her own, very successful blog called Not Your Average Mom. This is a weekend for women only to come and ease away the stresses of everyday life.

Anyway, I’ll be there. Of course. Because I’m helping to organize it. And it’s going to be fun. I don’t like to miss anything that is going to be fun.

If you’d like to hear more about it, click on this link and you will be able to read a nice post Susie put together explaining the whole thing.

But if you don’t feel like doing that, let me explain what it entails:

Date: February 27-March 1, 2015 (I really like how that date makes it seem the weekend is like, 6 days but it’s really not so don’t get excited)

Place: The Interlaken Inn, Lakeville, Connecticut (note: if you would be traveling out of town, no worries. We will have complimentary transportation to and from the airport/train station. It’s a first come/first serve basis so if you do this, let me know asap)

What’s Included? Well, besides a 2 night stay at the inn, I’ve broken it down for you below:

Friday: Meet & Greet, Dinner, Drinks, a singing man with a guitar (the only man allowed btw)

Saturday: Breakfast followed by three break-out sessions; a yoga class, pole dancing instructions, karate/MMA lessons. There will be a snack break in there somewhere. After the sessions, lunch will be served followed by a 3 hour break to do with as you wish. Some suggestions: a nap, a movie, a walk, a massage, a leisurely shower, hang out at the bar, go check out the sites of the beautiful Litchfield Hills. In other words, do whatever you freaking want to do without husbands and children and housework crap bugging you.

After your break, meet us downstairs for dinner. Then this is where more fun comes in…there will be karaoke, a photo booth, dancing, music, drinking, games, fun, hanging out, the letting down of hair, partying, more drinking and fun, fun, fun.

Sunday: Sleep in a bit then have a relaxing brunch before heading back home to well, home.

So, doesn’t an entire weekend of no grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and all else crappy sound good? I mean, you won’t even have to make your bed! Damn.

And you can come hang out with me. I promise to sing some karaoke. I promise! I warn you that I sound like a dying cat on its last life, but I love to sing and I will sing even though I shouldn’t.

I wish this was a video so you could get a real treat. I am singing American Pie. That song will never be the same.

Seriously, you need to grab a girlfriend, or two or three and come on down or over or up.

How much does it cost? This is how much it costs…

  • Single: $425
  • Double: $325
  • Triple: $300
  • Quadruple: $225

It’s totally affordable. And the reason it’s totally affordable is because today we launched a Crowdfunding campaign. (click right there to the left)

And here’s the Google definition because I’m really bad at explaining things: the practice of funding a project or venture by raising many small amounts of money from a large number of people, typically via the Internet.

So, if you would just love to help to make this a success, please consider a donation. There are perks so you’ll get some goodies in return! Here’s that campaign again.

How do you reserve a room? Call The Interlaken directly at 1-800-222-2909 and tell the operator that you are calling to reserve your spot for the Not Your Average Weekend retreat.

If you have a friend who will be calling in or has called in her reservation, just make sure you tell the nice lady/man on the phone who you want to room with.

Right now, all you need is a $100 deposit to hold your spot! Or you can totally go to the crowd funding link above and see that you can actually get an even better deal on your weekend. But act fast because there aren’t very many being offered at this price.

Leave a comment if you have any questions or send me a nice email at momfeld@hotmail.com and I’ll be sure to answer any question you have!

I would love to see you, to meet you, to party with you! It’s a great way to rejuvenate and catch a break from the winter blahs. Send me a message when you book your room! See you there!

Here’s a sneak peak of what happens when you eat their dessert alone without children hanging on you. And my acting debut:

Adventures Abound

Last week I talked about our Summer Bucket List and the fact that we didn’t accomplish much. There was one thing that was not on there that actually did get accomplished.

Wait. Does that even count? Can I legitimately say that we accomplished something not on our bucket list? Hmm.

Anyway, that thing was Ziplining. I live in the Northeast. Close to New York. In the Catskills there is a Ziplining park that boasts the highest zipline in the entire country. Why did we go there? Because The Kid has been bugging us for forever.

zipline

And because we are nuts. DH is deathly afraid of heights and I really could have stayed home and read. Or written. Or endured drip drops of water in the same spot on my forehead for 7 hours straight.

It turns out there was not just one zipline. Or two. There were six. Six little adventures wrapped up into one. So, just in case you didn’t die the first time, you got five more chances.

GOPR2457

You can’t tell, but I’m freaking out.

What goes through the mind and out of the mouth and body of a 47 year old woman who is about to throw herself over 680 feet of open air? This:

  • What am I doing here? I am a 47 year old woman about to throw her body over 680 feet of open air. I should be home reading a book. Or writing. Or enduring Chinese Water Torture for 7 hours straight.
  • OMG, my heart. I think I may have a heart attack. Oh my god, I’m going to have a heart attack. (Me to guide as I’m about to jump: “umm, has anyone ever died of a heart attack up here?” I probably should have googled it because I didn’t believe him. I’m seriously surprised I didn’t have a heart attack.)
  • Pee. Yes, I peed. Just a little. That’s what happens when a 47 year old woman tries to fly. Maybe it was the high altitude? Or perhaps it’s because I no longer have much control over my pelvic floor muscles.
  • So, how much would it hurt if the cable snapped? Would I die mid-air of that heart attack I was afraid of? Or would it be on impact? There are a lot of trees though. Think that would soften the blow? Superman. Where is Superman when I need him?
  • The guide said not to hang upside down because we will fall out of the harness to our deaths. Sure okay. I’ll try not to hang upside down. I’m not a monkey. I will not play monkey at 680 feet in the air. I promise. Oh god. I hope I don’t accidentally play monkey.
  • Put my body into a fetal position? I haven’t been in a fetal position since I was a fetus.
  • zipliningOHMYGOD. I didn’t get all the way across. I’m just hanging here over 600 feet of air in the damn mountains. Is it because I couldn’t get into a fetal position? Who do they think I am? Nadia Comaneci? Geez, a sloth is more flexible than I am. And faster.
  • I totally love that DH is more afraid than I am. I got this. OHMYGOD. I got stuck again.

And because we survived that, we decided we were total adventure jet-setters and went on another little adventure. It was a bit more tame. Although there could have been sharks. Really, there totally could have been. This wasn’t on our bucket list either. Or was it? I wouldn’t know because I threw it in a fire.

paddle boarding

To be honest with you, this is more my speed:

margarita on the beach

Next time, I’m beaching it. Like a whale, but with a margarita and a book. And well, a little less blubber.

This was a writing prompt from Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: Write a post inspired by the word “Adventure.”

Mama’s Losin’ It