Zumba - one part aerobics, one part dancing with the stars, one part rosetta stone, and one part stripper shaking equals one sticky, sweaty, beet red mum. If you know me at all, you know that I am not actually physically fit. I run for clothing sales - not for sport. I conceded to go last night because, well, any excuse to get out of the house around bedtime is a great one and also because I really needed blog inspiration. Inspired I was. By the first note of the first Spanish dance party rave song, I was oozing inspiration (and some perspiration).
I quickly picked my place at the rear of the gym so I could sneak Zumba out the door if I needed. The instructor, an obvious "WOO!" girl, cranked her iPhone to stun and set off on a mission to kick my untoned bottom. She moved in a girating, brandish style that left me a few steps behind and left my behind a few steps further behind me. I have heard that one's keister can become estranged from the rest of one's body and assume it's own, totally separate entity and folks, tonight, the urban myth that I balked at as a naive teenager, morphed into my rural truth. My backside was finishing the macarena while my arms were swinging to the salsa. I make it a steadfast rule to avoid any and all activities that may inadvertently showcase my jiggly bits. How do the French dance? Those people might be more my speed.
Ten minutes into the hour, the garlic green beans that I inhaled on the way to the car reappeared in objection. I choked them back down (not as tasty on the second go) and shuffled my tree trunks around near the foul shot line. Surely, we must be nearing the cool-down song, right? Wrong. A solid 40 more minutes of grapevineing and crazy arms and lady cha-cha chicky bon-bon hadn't even broken a sweat. Heck, she was singing along with Ricky Martin. I tried to ignore my imaginary audience's snickers, but those guys are so loud I tell you! As I was commanding them to take an imaginary hike, I noticed that we had real life onlookers. Were those cameras? I shuddered at the thoughts racing through my sorta warped brain and skulked to the farthest corner of the room praying for a bolt of lightening to strike Newbegin Hall that would result in my certain death. (Headline: Local Mum Struck Down in Freak Electric Storm! Witnesses claim she was so painfully uncoordinated, that they began a ritual rain dance to end the misery. "We didn't know the dance would really work...", said one anonymous participant.)
Thankfully, the gathering spectators were not equipped with recording devices, but musical instruments instead. I contemplated offering to stick around and inspire them with the interpretive dance moves I had just learned, but thought they might be offended. Apparently, not everyone is as amused by me as I seem to be. I might save my new moves for a family wedding this weekend or perhaps join the Zumba girl at Bubba's Sulky Lounge later. It's 80's night.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
oh, no you di'int!
Yuppers. I must be a looney bird, but oh, yes, I did. This time though, it was by a professional. Close your eyes children and let Mum tell you a story... On second thought, you probably need them open to read this tale.
Once upon a time (yesterday), there was a fairy mum who spent the livelong day at the beach with a lot of children. She ate sandy-wiches and drank mouthfuls of salt water. She got to spend more time in the public loo stall with her 3 year old than she did relaxing in her chair. Her favorite sounds of the ocean were drowned out by the tattling and complaining of the smallish people that surrounded her. And a horsefly bit her on the leg. She thought, "you know what what make this day even more lovely? A bikini wax!"
(I think body hair, by nature, wants to remain attached to one's body. It is especially stubborn in the most unsightly places - the chin of a lady, armpits and, of course, down under. It grows wild and in different directions and when disturbed, it overreacts angrily with rashes and stubble. Meanwhile, the hairs atop my head fall out freely and clog the shower drain daily.)
Anywho, back to the story...
Fairy Lady Rainbow Mum, gathered her overtired, sweaty, salty and sandy yowlings, strapped them into the belly of the royal minivan carriage and headed to a town far, far away. As best as she could while driving, she tidied her hair and straightened her dress and brushed as much of the ocean as she could from her tired old self. She met, at the salon, a woman who promised to be make this a most pleasant experience and as they ascended the 98 degree stairwell to the attic spa, she knew it would be anything but. But she was a wise Mum and she came equipped with goldfish crackers and water. The three wee ones should be capable of behaving for a mere 20 minutes, right? She waved a magic wand over their blonde heads and asked them quietly and calmly to, "sit nice, share, look at a magazine if you like" and then proceeded to enter the designated beautification room. The room, as you can well imagine, is air conditioned, thickly scented by aromatherapy, soothing colors, the softest blankets, and the sounds of the rainforest tie the entire motif together. I sit on the table - nervous about the pain, but more so about the children in the adjoining room. My charming aesthetician tries to ease my fear with words of encouragement and understanding, as I lay on the table in the most precarious, vulnerable position ever...
Marsha: 1, 2, ...
Me: You three better be good out there - OUCHIE!
Marsha: you live close by honey? Ready?
Me: I am serious you little hooligans! If I have to get up - HOOCHIE MAMA!
Marsha: How was the ocean water?
Me: (glass nailpolish bottles crashing down noise) What is going - HANNA MONTANA!!!!
By the time the 23 minutes in the room of horrors was over, my sweeties had rearranged all of the Opi nail colors by size and favorite. Thing 1 figured out how to turn on and operate the pedi-spa soak machine. The crackers were gone. The plant was wet - presumably with the water they were supposed to drink and I had 3 slightly traumatized sorts to escort home because they all took turns peeking in at their yelling fairy rainbow sparkle mama. Also, she missed a few spots and so now I have to do tweezer duty. Good news though - I can now threaten them with a visit to the waxing museum should they dare misbehave and I am pretty confident that I have entirely horrified the girls from ever attempting hair removal (good to keep the teenaged boys away) and my boy will be forever scarred and afraid of womenkind (he thinks I am quite tough though with my pain threshold and all) so he can live with me forever and rub my old lady feet...
Once upon a time (yesterday), there was a fairy mum who spent the livelong day at the beach with a lot of children. She ate sandy-wiches and drank mouthfuls of salt water. She got to spend more time in the public loo stall with her 3 year old than she did relaxing in her chair. Her favorite sounds of the ocean were drowned out by the tattling and complaining of the smallish people that surrounded her. And a horsefly bit her on the leg. She thought, "you know what what make this day even more lovely? A bikini wax!"
(I think body hair, by nature, wants to remain attached to one's body. It is especially stubborn in the most unsightly places - the chin of a lady, armpits and, of course, down under. It grows wild and in different directions and when disturbed, it overreacts angrily with rashes and stubble. Meanwhile, the hairs atop my head fall out freely and clog the shower drain daily.)
Anywho, back to the story...
Fairy Lady Rainbow Mum, gathered her overtired, sweaty, salty and sandy yowlings, strapped them into the belly of the royal minivan carriage and headed to a town far, far away. As best as she could while driving, she tidied her hair and straightened her dress and brushed as much of the ocean as she could from her tired old self. She met, at the salon, a woman who promised to be make this a most pleasant experience and as they ascended the 98 degree stairwell to the attic spa, she knew it would be anything but. But she was a wise Mum and she came equipped with goldfish crackers and water. The three wee ones should be capable of behaving for a mere 20 minutes, right? She waved a magic wand over their blonde heads and asked them quietly and calmly to, "sit nice, share, look at a magazine if you like" and then proceeded to enter the designated beautification room. The room, as you can well imagine, is air conditioned, thickly scented by aromatherapy, soothing colors, the softest blankets, and the sounds of the rainforest tie the entire motif together. I sit on the table - nervous about the pain, but more so about the children in the adjoining room. My charming aesthetician tries to ease my fear with words of encouragement and understanding, as I lay on the table in the most precarious, vulnerable position ever...
Marsha: 1, 2, ...
Me: You three better be good out there - OUCHIE!
Marsha: you live close by honey? Ready?
Me: I am serious you little hooligans! If I have to get up - HOOCHIE MAMA!
Marsha: How was the ocean water?
Me: (glass nailpolish bottles crashing down noise) What is going - HANNA MONTANA!!!!
By the time the 23 minutes in the room of horrors was over, my sweeties had rearranged all of the Opi nail colors by size and favorite. Thing 1 figured out how to turn on and operate the pedi-spa soak machine. The crackers were gone. The plant was wet - presumably with the water they were supposed to drink and I had 3 slightly traumatized sorts to escort home because they all took turns peeking in at their yelling fairy rainbow sparkle mama. Also, she missed a few spots and so now I have to do tweezer duty. Good news though - I can now threaten them with a visit to the waxing museum should they dare misbehave and I am pretty confident that I have entirely horrified the girls from ever attempting hair removal (good to keep the teenaged boys away) and my boy will be forever scarred and afraid of womenkind (he thinks I am quite tough though with my pain threshold and all) so he can live with me forever and rub my old lady feet...
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
this is my dance space!
Here's the dealio - when I am sleeping, I like space. I think a good wing span is reasonable and when my eyes are closed (faking counts here) I AM SLEEPING!!! Children, husbands, dogs and guinea pigs take notice: I am never, ever, ever, ever, never happy or even slightly agreeable if I am roused before I am good and ready. I am considerably less pissy with demanding kids and grownups alike if I wake up on my own terms. Remember my favorite movie Dirty Dancing? Johnnie told Baby, "This is my dance space. This is your dance space."
Not sure how this all came to fruition, but for the past 10 years that I have been either pregnant or nursing a wee one, I have not gotten a solid night's sleep even once. I know there are some strong people out there (Christina dear) that can function on lack of sleep, but I am not this person. I need a good REM cycle or 3 per night or I become Darth Sarah. She is not pretty and she is not nice and she breathes funny. My first 2 offspring are great sleepers, but the 3rd, she is difficult to go down, hasn't napped in 2 years and wakes at the buttcrack of dawn. I am startled awake by a soft, squishy little paw shoving me over and stealing my blankets and pillow. She tosses and turns and snores like a hibernating bear. I get sandwiched between her and the husband and then the dog lays across my legs. As if this isn't enough, the nearly 7 year old bag of bones stumbles in and sleeps at the bottom of the bed. This is a queen bed. This is not big enough for my commune family.
The repercussions of my utter sleep deprivation varies in severity day to day - at best, I am cranky. At worst, I have conversations at a red light near Walmart with a stranger that I think is the kids' bus driver (she was not, and although she was quite friendly, she was anxious to peel away as soon as the light changed). I require more caffeine and I crave junk food and I have a wicked hard time forming complete sentences (bad for writing, or is it...). I am hopeful (or maybe delusional) that everyone will snooze soundly tonight after a long day at the beach. Or maybe I should slip them a Mickey in their warm milk?
Not sure how this all came to fruition, but for the past 10 years that I have been either pregnant or nursing a wee one, I have not gotten a solid night's sleep even once. I know there are some strong people out there (Christina dear) that can function on lack of sleep, but I am not this person. I need a good REM cycle or 3 per night or I become Darth Sarah. She is not pretty and she is not nice and she breathes funny. My first 2 offspring are great sleepers, but the 3rd, she is difficult to go down, hasn't napped in 2 years and wakes at the buttcrack of dawn. I am startled awake by a soft, squishy little paw shoving me over and stealing my blankets and pillow. She tosses and turns and snores like a hibernating bear. I get sandwiched between her and the husband and then the dog lays across my legs. As if this isn't enough, the nearly 7 year old bag of bones stumbles in and sleeps at the bottom of the bed. This is a queen bed. This is not big enough for my commune family.
The repercussions of my utter sleep deprivation varies in severity day to day - at best, I am cranky. At worst, I have conversations at a red light near Walmart with a stranger that I think is the kids' bus driver (she was not, and although she was quite friendly, she was anxious to peel away as soon as the light changed). I require more caffeine and I crave junk food and I have a wicked hard time forming complete sentences (bad for writing, or is it...). I am hopeful (or maybe delusional) that everyone will snooze soundly tonight after a long day at the beach. Or maybe I should slip them a Mickey in their warm milk?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
sausage linked in
Since the summer preview (December I think) of my favorite fabulous British mail order catalouge, I have been drooling over the notch shift dress in sailor blue. I checked stock in my size and bestie color almost daily and was poised at the ready for the moment the semi-annual sale started. I eagerly added my beauty to the cart and waited very impatiently for my lovely to arrive (yes, I know, I have a problem with retail and honestly, I need another dress like I need another cup of joe). Despite the spotty bag being intercepted at the front door and the myriad of questions regarding it's contents and straying from the budget, I was overjoyed by the prospects of how my life would be complete with the new addition hanging in my closet. I quickly dismissed myself from mum chores (watching my favorite episode of the Backyardigans with the kids) and locked myself into the bathroom to try on my treasure. I carefully unwrapped the bags and examined the work of art - gorgeous indeed. Deep breathe, over my head - stuck. It's ok, I thought, it's new. Not yet broken in. Maybe I was too hasty and the zipper isn't all the way down - snap - it was. I warped my body and wiggled my way in, sucked in my belly, zip and I can't breathe - not at all. Maybe I should try again - maybe somehow the lining is twisted or bunched or something (reasonable, right?). Don't know why I didn't think of this before - off with the
dress! Or not...
Stuck in the dress. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened. Last time, I was in the dressing room at JCrew 10 minutes before closing looking for something to wear for an upcoming wedding (so far, deja vue). I found a pretty gray pin-dot swishy dress and noticed that it was a smidge difficult to get over my head and to force my arms through the holes, but it was late and I was tired and surely it didn't help that I was pressured by the model skinny high school girls anxious to lock up and go on their hot dates. So, anyway, here I am in the dress. Meh - just ok. Nothing fantastically flattering about the color or fit. It's closing time anyway, time to go. Only, I can't get out of the garment. I try to get out the same way I got in - over my head. No. Hem is by my head, but the waist won't budge. I suppose I can try to pull it down. I got an arm out and then nothing. This is way worse. I dislocate my arm to get it back in the hole and back to square one. Don't worry. As I am starting to sweat, I survey the situation - smooshed into a $98 not wonderful dress at closing time in a store's 3'x3' closet with Dansko clogs, mismatched socks and a fleece. I could tell them that I want to wear this ridiculous outfit home. Choice #2, beg for help. Did I neglect to mention that I had been using self tanner on my extremities and so I was only semi-tanned. I would need to be cut out of the dress with hedge clippers by these perfectly toned and bronzed teenagers. And, my belly looks like a sharpei puppy when I bend at all and the stretch marks - mother of pearl - the stretch marks! Grr. Option #1 is seeming like the less humiliating selection. Panic. As I prepare to scream, I spin around as fast as I can one last time, in an attempt to reverse the sands of time, and glance in the mirror only to see the zipper. I never unzipped the zipper. Gather composure, peel off the caftan, throw on my jeans and run out of the establishment toute suite and deny this memory forever.
So, not as bad as the last time but I am feeling really awful. I peek at myself. I look like a couple of sausage links in a terrific casing. As I choke back the tears of disappointment, I try to remind myself that it could be a hundred times worse. I count my blessing and shed light on my self-inflicted predicament. Perspective is usually great, but today, at this moment, I don't care. I AM STUCK IN A DRESS!!! Could this be punishment for not sharing the pound of fudge with my children? Or something far greater? No time for reflection. Somehow, I find the strength and contort my body out of the shift. I throw on my best ripped, faded, pity pjs and curse at the stupid dress that I never really liked anyway. I am way better off without that dress. I do love that dress though. I decide to write a scathing online review only to discover that the recommendation is to order a size larger as the cut of the dress is exceptionally narrow and if you have curves of any sort (I do! I have a lot of curves!) that you should go bigger. I feel marginally better, but only marginally. I hereby vow to only snack wisely. Unless, of course, another special delivery of treats arrives on my stoop.
dress! Or not...
Stuck in the dress. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened. Last time, I was in the dressing room at JCrew 10 minutes before closing looking for something to wear for an upcoming wedding (so far, deja vue). I found a pretty gray pin-dot swishy dress and noticed that it was a smidge difficult to get over my head and to force my arms through the holes, but it was late and I was tired and surely it didn't help that I was pressured by the model skinny high school girls anxious to lock up and go on their hot dates. So, anyway, here I am in the dress. Meh - just ok. Nothing fantastically flattering about the color or fit. It's closing time anyway, time to go. Only, I can't get out of the garment. I try to get out the same way I got in - over my head. No. Hem is by my head, but the waist won't budge. I suppose I can try to pull it down. I got an arm out and then nothing. This is way worse. I dislocate my arm to get it back in the hole and back to square one. Don't worry. As I am starting to sweat, I survey the situation - smooshed into a $98 not wonderful dress at closing time in a store's 3'x3' closet with Dansko clogs, mismatched socks and a fleece. I could tell them that I want to wear this ridiculous outfit home. Choice #2, beg for help. Did I neglect to mention that I had been using self tanner on my extremities and so I was only semi-tanned. I would need to be cut out of the dress with hedge clippers by these perfectly toned and bronzed teenagers. And, my belly looks like a sharpei puppy when I bend at all and the stretch marks - mother of pearl - the stretch marks! Grr. Option #1 is seeming like the less humiliating selection. Panic. As I prepare to scream, I spin around as fast as I can one last time, in an attempt to reverse the sands of time, and glance in the mirror only to see the zipper. I never unzipped the zipper. Gather composure, peel off the caftan, throw on my jeans and run out of the establishment toute suite and deny this memory forever.
So, not as bad as the last time but I am feeling really awful. I peek at myself. I look like a couple of sausage links in a terrific casing. As I choke back the tears of disappointment, I try to remind myself that it could be a hundred times worse. I count my blessing and shed light on my self-inflicted predicament. Perspective is usually great, but today, at this moment, I don't care. I AM STUCK IN A DRESS!!! Could this be punishment for not sharing the pound of fudge with my children? Or something far greater? No time for reflection. Somehow, I find the strength and contort my body out of the shift. I throw on my best ripped, faded, pity pjs and curse at the stupid dress that I never really liked anyway. I am way better off without that dress. I do love that dress though. I decide to write a scathing online review only to discover that the recommendation is to order a size larger as the cut of the dress is exceptionally narrow and if you have curves of any sort (I do! I have a lot of curves!) that you should go bigger. I feel marginally better, but only marginally. I hereby vow to only snack wisely. Unless, of course, another special delivery of treats arrives on my stoop.
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