Exotic yet ordinary

Dear vacationing co-worker,

In spite of the yellow post-it note you slapped on my computer and the note I left myself on my desk calendar, I didn’t remember to water your plants. Until Thursday. It is a miracle I remembered to do it at all. *nervous laugh* But I did. This morning. And everything seems to be okay. Really.

I probably should have disclosed that I’m a plant killer from way back. House plants left in my care tend to die slow, miserable, thirsty deaths. After my husband’s accident, I managed to kill all but one of the plants that he brought home from the hospital. This includes a cactus. No, really. I killed. A cactus. It just doesn’t occur to me to water plants. Sometimes I go for days without checking on the cat to make sure she has food and water. Heck, it’s probably a good thing my daughter isn’t too interested in the whole eating thing, because it is quite possible I’d eventually forget to slip her an occasional cheese cube or raisin or spoonful of yogurt, given enough time.

So, I should have been honest with you the day you popped in from the other side of my cubicle last week to ask this small favor. Just water your plants. How hard could that be? My slight hesitation (which I was using to evaluate whether I could in fact remember to water the plants while you were away. In Alaska. ) should have been a red flag. And I guess you picked up on it, because you hurriedly told me that you could get someone else to do it, no big deal. But, no. No, I insisted. I wanted to prove to myself that I COULD, in fact, do this. A plant could be left in my care and live. And I was going to do it at the expense of the two lovely, thriving plants nestled on your window sill. Which are FINE. Because I watered them.

So, how was Alaska?

Hey, Cowtown. I know you’re a busy bunch and all with lots of important things to do before the day is done, so I understand that you can’t be bothered with courtesy since you’ve gotta hurry up and get places, important ones… like the stop sign at the end of the block. But next time you’re motoring down 6th street at noon on your way home to snarf down a heaping helping of beef and mashed taters, and you see the ass of my car inching out into the lane ahead of you, instead of going around me, could you, I dunno, stop for the whole, what?, two seconds it takes for me to back up, shift gears, and pull out into traffic? Thanks. Oh, and here's a suggestion: turn signals. You should really think about giving those a go sometime. Then we won’t be all up in your business when you make those maneuvers that could have been anticipated had you let us know you were turning.

My new diet kryptonite is (or could be, if I ever get around to actually trying one) the chocolate caramel junior banana split from Sonic. If you tune in for the tiniest nano second of daytime TV, you'll see the commercial showcasing the drive-in's newest frozen treat sensation: a small boat of vanilla soft serve topped with fluffy whipped cream topping drizzled in hot fudge and caramel. Oh, and a banana or two somewhere under all that. All for 99¢. That just sounds really really good to me right now. Yes, sir. I could definitely go for a CCJBS.

But I won't. Because I'm lazy. And laziness has finally worked to my advantage. You see, it's late (no, really.. for a mom of a toddler, it IS) and try as I might, I can't seem to convince myself that the mile drive (give or take some tenths) out to Sonic, an eating establishment that doesn't require you to move from your car, mind you, is worth the hassle, even for a chocolate caramel junior banana split. And so, the diet remains intact. Who knew laziness could be a dieter's friend?

What is it about a good meal that makes you wanna stop off in some smallish town on the way home to make an awkward purchase? An awkward purchase like Kotex or hemorrhoid cream or an enema or, I dunno, condoms. And when you have safely secured the awkward item and have stealthily made your way to the front of the store to check out, why is it that you and your awkward purchase always ALWAYS end up sandwiched in between folks that make the situation even more awkward, like, say, a gaggle of teenagers (duuuude!) or clergy or a relative or co-worker or some weird guy in overalls who is buying a case of beer and some meat, even in the short line?

Man, that really was some awesome saag paneer.

You can't tell from the picture, but I'm wearing a new shirt from my new best friend, Lane Bryant. I visited her store over the weekend and had one of the best shopping experiences EVER. I bought several comfy shirts and two pairs of pants, all very flattering, if I do say so myself (turns out, it helps to get clothes that actually fit instead of ones you wish fit). WHY didn't I shop at a Lane Bryant sooner!? As God is my witness, I'll never squeeze into ill-fitting, uncomfortable clothing again.

Maya plugged her ears this afternoon while I was singing a song from Jack's Big Music Show, a song that I know she likes. She waited until she was certain I had finished, removed her fingers, and went back to eating her chips. I thought maybe she did it because I was singing about her ears, but when I started singing a new verse, this time about her eyes, she plugged her ears again.

So, this evening mom and I are playing Scene it! (well, okay, we weren't really playing so much as repeatedly going through the all play and my play segments trying to fill in the blanks, put things in order, identify actors, and answer unrelated questions that followed movie clips before time ran out) when in struts Maya, wearing her nightgown. And nothing else. My mom, who is the first to notice Maya's nekkid butt, laughs, and asks Maya where her diaper is. Maya slides off the couch and leads us back to her room, stopping at her clothes hamper. So we look, and there on top of the outfit she wore earlier today was her discarded diaper. Considerate child. Apparently, at some point during Dora and Diego's adventures, she shucked her diaper, tossed it, and went about her business as usual.

Since Maya turned 18 months, and moreso after she made it to 24, I've been looking for signs of toilet training readiness as indicated by the list. The list. Yet another way to push your child and make yourself feel inadequate as a parent if YOUR child isn't tugging on you by age two to let you know that she has to go potty, right then, so would we please be so kind as to escort her and be sure to bring some reading material? preferably the new Highlights? Swell! Anyway. Taking her diaper off wasn't exactly on the list, but I'm gonna pencil it in and check it off and assume she's one nekkid butt closer to being ready to use the potty.

I’ve lost (almost) twenty pounds! If I hold my breath and stand juuust right on the bathroom scales first thing in the morning without a shred of clothing on. And, really, it is probably closer to fifteen, but (almost) twenty just sounds better. So, I’ve lost (almost) twenty pounds!

Right now, my weight has been fluctuating between 172ish and 175 (this is the part where people chime in that, gosh, they never would have guessed in, like, a gazillion years that I weighed that much! and I nod and tell them oh, but it’s true! And they say something about how my weight must be well distributed or some such nonsense and I back away and find some excuse to be somewhere else). The goal, my goal, is to lose five pounds a month, and so far I’ve been able to make it each month. So, yea me!

Oh, and then there’s my clothes. They’re bagging. BAGGING. MY clothes! Enough that other people have noticed. So sometime soon I guess I’ll be taking myself and my baggy clothes shopping. And for the first time in, pfffft, I dunno, ten years? it’s because my clothes are a bit big instead of a bit snug. Lord help us all if I start to actually like shopping again.

Yesterday was our monthly All Staff meeting, which should really be called the unnecessarily-long-could-have-certified-the-entire-county-in-the-time-it-took-for-you-to-discuss-your-mail-All-the-ever-loving-live-long-day-Staff. But, hey, whatever. At some point between the mail, and the director openly admitting that she had never played rock, paper, scissors (by the way, who makes it through childhood without playing rock, paper, scissors at least ONCE? who?) and the last bite of apple pie was eaten at the overly patriotic staff luncheon (that I missed out on - diet), a few of my co-workers had huddled together to organize a homegrown version of The Biggest Loser – you know, that reality TV show where contestants are housed at some ranch with shiny exercise equipment and two teams are formed and the teams get trainers and everyone is hoping like hell that they can pull their weight by losing lots and lots and lots of it so they won’t get kicked off (kinda sounds like a Survivor fat camp)? Yeah, like that, just without the cameras, the audience, the trainers, and those giant screens to display everyone’s weight (though, oooh!, now that I think about it, we DO have those dry-erase boards in the conference room!) Oh, and the cash prize is significantly smaller. Instead of $250,000 for the biggest loser, the best we can hope for is upwards of $300. But, otherwise, JUST like that.

Anyway, they’ve suckered me into this. I think. Maybe. I mean, I’m dieting anyway. Might as well make a bit of bank for my efforts. The other girls are all especially eager for me to pay and play because they're convinced that after losing (nearly) twenty pounds I have hit a plateau, surely. And that may be true. But, now there is money involved, money that may finally convince me to get off my ass and finally, um, exercise. Either way, next month it’s on. One by one, the few, the brave, the dieting will step onto a scale (brought from home so it will be all official and scientific-like), grimace as their weight is recorded, grimace some more as they fork over the first of four $10 fork-overs for the prize pool, and then diet like crazy over the next four months in the hopes that the scales will show that SHE is the biggest loser. The biggest loser with all our money.

I don't know how to knit or crochet, I can't make my own furniture, and I have this unexplainable compulsion to run with sharp pointy objects so crafty activities like needlepoint and cross stitching are kind of out. But, by gosh I can cut (using safety scissors) and paste and smoosh things together like nobody's business! And that's just how I spent one afternoon over Memorial Day weekend.

After weeks of procrastinating, I finally braved the craft-crazed masses (and the genuinely unhelpful employees) at Hobby Lobby and bought the essentials for making marble magnets: silicon glue, marbles, magnets. I clipped images from a kids magazine for most of them and swiped some of Maya’s Dora stickers (that sneaky mom! she's ALWAYS swiping Maya's stuff) for a few more. Turns out stickers are really handy to have around when struck by the sudden urge to make marble magnets. They're already sticky (although, I used a teeny bit of the silicon glue anyway because I was paranoid about the sticky wearing off the sticker), and you can handle them in your hot little hand without worrying about your sweaty fingers changing white backgrounds to a grayish color or smudging print (maybe that’s just a plus for me). And while not the most economical choice they are damn convenient.

Here are a few of my favorites from my first batch of magnets.


Oh, and um, don't be surpised if you find magnets from me under your tree this Christmas.

So, Wednesday night I treated my inner child to a performance of The Lion King at the Tulsa PAC. I got our tickets six months ago and the six-year-old in me has had a really hard time containing her excitement ever since. She’s been happily humming Hakuna Matata and outright belting I Just Can't Wait to be King, and periodically she’s made me stop people to let them know in an overly animated way that, hey! I have TICKETS! to see The LION KING! By opening night, I was all about being up in Simba’s circle of life, which is wacky because as a rule I do not get too excited about musicals. But this was The LION KING and I had already committed the songs (consequently, do you know how hard it is not to sing along at a musical when you know and love the songs?) and huge chunks of dialogue to memory. How can you go wrong? That's just it! You CAN'T because it's The Lion King!

Holy shiitake mushrooms was it ever swell! Absolutely PHENOMENAL! The music, the costumes, the performances - all incredible. It pulls you in from the moment Rafiki takes the stage to belt that first powerful note and holds your imagination and heart until Simba and Nala climb Pride Rock to introduce their new cub at the end. It is visually stunning and fantastic and I am so ready to go back for an encore. In fact, the morning after the performance, I sat in front of a page of dates and skimmed seating charts looking for seats for another show later in the month - you know, in case I find someone else who needs to take their inner child to the theater.

It's just one of the best things I've ever experienced. I can't say enough great things about it. At least not without a thesaurus.

Wow. I'm going to have to start posting more. People are going to think I'm just some vain girl who goes around taking pictures of herself... instead of some vain girl who prattles on stupidly about her life on a blog. Hmm.