Jiggle Belly Sumo Run

Well, wet your pencil tips and lean in for the earth-shattering scoop, my loyal followers.  This Charter Member of the Exercise Haters Club has officially enrolled to run a 5k in the Jingle Bell Run in the local big town. 

I don't know if it is the impending 15 year class reunion that has me finally motivated, my "Wattle" picture, the fact that I nearly died by skirt asphyxiation, or the sad truth that I snuck into an Eddie Bauer store to find out if I could rock a skinny aviator pant and found out that either they have shrunken their pant sizes or I have gone up YET ANOTHER SIZE but whatever the case is/was...I am now running. 

Running is a more flattering term than what I am actually doing...which is slowly pounding along the highway, breathing like a heifer in labor, knees wrenching in pain, hearing going out in my left ear, iPod blaring loud enough to not hear myself breathing like a heifer, while my Buddha belly and bazerkers collide into each other like two over-eager sumo wrestlers.  It's not pretty.  Running was a lot more fun before I hit puberty.  Scratch that.  Running has never been fun but it was at least more tolerable before I had to haul a couple of sandbags along with me. 

I printed out a 9-week training schedule online and emailed my sister Renee - my resident superstar sister who not only runs but bikes and swims and triathlons and generally has always been in fantastic shape since forever even though she finally hit the big 4-0 this year.  Totally puts me to shame.  She said I could join her Trooper team and might even get to run with Big Local Christian Radio Personality. 

I borrow a phrase from my other triathlete sister Susan when I say I am a COMPLETER, not a COMPETER.  In fact, Eli went running with me yesterday and completely smoked me.  In my defense, she hasn't developed any "sandbags" yet.  And she's African-American, which I am pretty sure means she had an advantage at birth whereas my Germanic background meant I inherited genes to be able to drink beer and dance the clog at Oktoberfest. 

Even though my running is pathetic, I at least hope I've got the fitness fashion down...feeling very sleek in my UnderArmour and new running shoes that were custom selected after my feet and stride/gait were measured, scanned, analyzed, etc.  The running shoes have words like "Titanium" and ""Maui Blue" and "Lightning" on the shoebox...as if I were an Iron Woman Triathlete competing in Hawaii. 

I'll settle for making it through 3.2 miles in freezing weather wearing a Santa hat and hope I live to tell about it.  So far, four weeks into training, I have lost a grand total of...zero pounds.  With that kind of motivation, how can I not look forward to the Jingle Bell Run?  Or in my case, the Jiggle Belly Run?

Recession Proof Doll Mania

This past weekend, 8 little squirrels had the time of their lives on a one-day whirlwind trip up north. What started out as a plan for my girls to get to the go to the American Girl store to fix their poor little Bitty Twins' hair that they had completely ghetto-fied (evidently curly doll hair, lots of brushing, and various and sundry colored elastic bands throughout do not a great doll hair-do make!) compounded to add in sisters Renee and Susan plus my mom and six additional girls. That's right...if you are counting, eight girls under the age of 10 were awoken at O Dark Thirty to board the train.

They excitedly clutched their dolls and snacked on the 2 1/2 hour ride up there. It looked like a game of Musical Chairs on the Rails as they changed seats more often than I could blink. The conductors on the train were great, asking about the dolls and giving fake tickets to the dolls so they could ride back on the train. At one point, Kate asked the conductor if he was a police man, which caused him to smirk.

We arrived in the Big City and Susan proceeded to get us onto the right bus to get to the American Girl store.

And then all chaos broke loose. I thought perhaps going after school had started and on a rainy day would mean the store would be less crowded. I thought wrong. I thought since the country is in a recession, unemployment is up, and people are watching their spending, they would not be packed into a non-essential store like American Girl. I thought wrong. Every possible shape of mom (and a few dads) and girl were in there. Some were hauling several dolls plus matching outfits (and human sized outfits to match) up to the register with a determined look. These dolls run $95 - $114 apiece! And the matching girl/doll pajamas are $54. A single outfit for a doll costs $26 - $34. I love my kids but seriously! They wouldn't even have an American Girl doll if their aunts hadn't taken pity on them and bought them for them for Christmas. I held my girls to getting their dolls' hair fixed and one outfit. I admit, I was tempted to purchase more but I realized I would blink and my girls would be in junior high, convinced that their mom was SO uncool and that these expensive dolls (and their outfits) would be relegated to storage.

On to a brief stop at the Disney store and a 2 mile walk back to the train station. On the way home, the girls again played Musical Chairs combined with inadvertently dropping most of their snacks on the ground. If they had been Hansel and Gretel, I could have found them anywhere based on the train of smashed pretzels and chips left behind.

Other than a brief incident where Grace and Elisabeth accidentally opened the train bathroom door to reveal a Man in Green doing his "bidness" (and I just happened to be sitting in his direct line of sight so I got an eyeful) and another elderly gentlemen doing who knows what in the bathroom that caused a smell so bad, we ducked our heads inside our shirts like turtles and gasped for air (mental note to self: next time, don't sit next to the bathrooms), we arrived worn out and determined that next time, we'd do this trip with less kids and more caffeine!

The Giraffe Blob

Kate had her first major school project to do for the first grade. She is to give a presentation in front of her class on the animal of her choice. She choose...(drum roll, please)...the GIRAFFE!

You can see the lovely poster board she created complete with her hand-drawn "giraffe blob" in the middle. I helped her find facts online and she had to select five to talk about.

I am not a creative genius when it comes to artistic or crafty things. I know some mothers relish doing craft projects with their children but I end up looking at the 5,000 bead box they get for their birthday and inwardly groaning. I am a great Momzilla for reading books (we are currently reading through the entire "Ramona" series by Beverly Clearly...and I am laughing more hysterically than the girls are) and for teaching life skills. But most my "crafty" days involved 4-H projects that still leave me scarred (don't get me started on my lack of sewing skills).

Back in my 4-H days, the crafts of choice where the wire hangers bent into a heart shape with rags knotted around the perimeter. And the lovely painted wooden heart-shaped wall hanger (three hearts with pegs coming out of the center of each heart) that held candles on a string. God bless the country blue and mauve era of the late 1980s!


Anyhoo, as I reel back from my digressions...I cringe whenever school projects are due but the results are sure fun to watch:

(Facebook followers will need to click on "View Original Post" to see this video)

Fashion Backward Hot Mess

I've been salivating over my latest issue of the Eddie Bauer catalog, wondering if I could rock a skinny aviator pant. In fact, I keep looking at this photo wondering if I would look this hip and cool or more like a fashion backward bush pilot wannabe hot mess.

Never mind that the complete ensemble costs a mere $990.50 + tax and shipping. And I start getting heart clutches when I buy something over $30. I usually am one of the late bloomers to a fashion trend, often not finally coming around until the trend is passe.

I justify my lack of fashion sense by saying that I work from home and therefore no one really cares what I wear. The truth is I discovered yoga pants about 5 years back and the lovely soft, stretchy waistband has allowed me to expand in size without the abdomen slicing interference of a non-elastic waistband. I am the nightmare that Stacy and Clinton jump all over on "What Not to Wear" and tsk, tsk about one's desire to be comfortable.

Oh, I did the high heeled boot, pen-stripe trouser, suit coat thing for years when I worked for Big Local Insurance Company Headquarters. I uncomfortably clomped around with my feet pointed at a 45 degree angle and a robust pair of Spanx underneath it all so you wouldn't see a VPL (I'll let the fashion elite figure out those initials). And yes, I refuse to wear those miserable excuse for underwear called thongs. Friends, I don't care how much you claim that you don't notice the butt flossing after a while. I don't believe you. God did not intend for you to wear something that could split you in half with one good sneeze.

But I digress...

Anyway, I will probably continue to drool all over my Eddie Bauer catalogs and not order a thing. Until I reach the age where it becomes socially acceptable to wear velour pantsuits. Which I am pretty sure is about the same time I dye my hair purple/blue and wear orthopedic shoes and trifocals.

The Norwitching Hour

I just spent $158 at a Norwex party, hosted by my friend Cass W. Husband may kill me when he finds out. I normally avoid parties led by people with stuffy titles like "consultant" (except for Pampered Chef, because the food is good and having all the cool kitchen gadgetry makes me feel like a "Top Chef"....when really I have just become a Pampered Chef addict).

You can't just go to this parties and not buy something. It's the unwritten rule. You feel like you need to buy something because you were fed Chex Party Mix and sipped on fruit punch. Sometimes you are tricked to attend by words like "Mom's Night Out" (you had envisioned a restaurant meal or spa pampering) or "free facial (and instead, you were told that buying this $189 face cream made from the foreskin of baby Aborigines would prevent wrinkles from ever forming). Whatever the case, you find yourself nodding along with whatever miracle product is being touted.

So now, I am $158 poorer but wowzer, do I have a Super Extender Micro Antibacterial Tree Hugging Nature Friendly mop, among other things. And a dusting mitt that is supposed to require no Pledging. And a window washing cloth that says it needs just water. I gave it a whirl but had to dodge so many moths and bugs outside I am not sure I will see a difference. Plus my licky dog Atticus decides to slurp on the window after I was done and Katybird was pressing her nose up to the inside of the glass watching me.

I would have signed up to host a party and maybe gotten the mop for free but then everyone who attended would expect me to attend (and buy) at whatever product party they hosted next. And the vicious cycle never would end. And you would find me broke but with luscious Arbonne/Mary Kay/Avon skin & makeup, a kitchen full of Southern Living/Pampered Chef/Tastefully Simple items, a cleaning closet full of Norwex/Amway/Shackley and a house full of Longerberger/PartyLite/Gold Canyon.

Testosterone Reinforcements

Just when Husband was about to build himself a man cave in the woods to escape all the estrogen-charged drama around here, testosterone reinforcements have arrived in the form of teenage wonder boy Wyatt. Wyatt is an honorary nephew of mine (okay, not an actual blood nephew) based on the fact that I am fairly certain every time I have been back to my Iowa stomping grounds, he has somehow appeared in the vicinity of either of my sisters' homes (that being Lisa and Beth).

The Squirrels are delighted beyond words to have a "big brother" in the house. When they found out he was moving in with us to attend a nearby college (and we hoped to scam some free "mannying" services from him), they asked nearly daily when Wyatt would arrive. When they found out they are related to him (rather distantly but he does boast my maiden name as his surname), they were fascinated. The Squirrels are always fascinated with how many people they are related to, thanks to the fact that both Husband and I come from a long line of happily breeding rabbits.

(PS That's my "flower arrangement" thing on the dresser. Wouldn't want to get Wyatt disbarred from the He-Man Woman Haters Club)

Wyatt moved in without much fanfare. He is very low key, crazy smart, and rather quiet. He puts up with the Squirrels invading his personal space on a daily basis and doesn't mind when they type on his laptop, watch him play video games, swipe his gum, and mess with his cell phone and iPod. He also was non-plussed by the fact that he had to have a background check run and be fingerprinted since we are still a licensed foster care home. The other day found that Kate had crawled up on Wyatt's lap with her TAG reader and was merrily "reading" the "Ozzie and Mack" book while Wyatt was reading his book for Literature 110. Kate also likes to launch herself up in Wyatt's arms and hang on like she's a barnacle. Elisabeth just likes to jabber his head off.

We told Wyatt that living with us is like nuclear birth control. He will be VERY content to wait for marriage and kids after he sees this Momzilla in action! I probably should have had him sign a confidentiality agreement that he would never disclose my pathetic parenting skills to the outside world. Maybe I'll make that a condition of continued habitation as the troll in our basement.