Rocked and Rolled

Dear readers(?),

I'm sorry I have been absent for so long.  Luckily, no one reads this blog, so, as my apologies usually go, this one is half-hearted at best.  Anyway, for your information, I was building suspense only and not being lazy as you might have suspected.  Quite unjustly I might add. I was doing charity work all winter and spring, as far as you know. Sorry to shame you like that, but you have only yourself to blame. You should be more trusting.

As I lured you here only through the sorcery of Pinterest, I will get on with reporting the results of the half-marathon and let us both get on with the task of wasting our lives.

On one hand, I seemed to have physically survived the half-marathon.  Other the other hand, it may be the case that I will, in fact, not be receiving any calls from the National Olympic Committee's Subcommittee on Half-Marathons.  I blame the entire episode on the aforementioned cousin who lured me into a false sense of almost confidence by running alongside me, stride for stride, at the start of the race only to heartlessly cast me aside when my lungs collapsed at Mile 3 of 13. 

However, I evidently did  reach the finish line eventually, which I cleverly deduced at the point that the sea of people surrounding me started to force bananas and granola bars down my throat.  So, in light of this tepid achievement, I have a few pro-tips on just how one could share in this quite paralleled mediocrity:

1)      Catapult self from the starting line using jerky motions to avoid sideswiping the riffraff that seemed to have wandered onto YOUR course.

2)      Ignore running partner's admonition to "pace yourself" while you pretend to be Jackie Joyner-Kersee darting between strollers and elderly walkers.

3)      Continue heart-straining pace when, minutes later, your body begins to show signs of vital organ shutdown.

4)      Smile and nod head in response to running partner's attempt to engage in conversation, while sound of rushing water in ears drowns out all outside sound.

5)      Shake fist above head with face tilted down in mock determination as eyesight starts to fade.

6)      Wave running partner on at fake water stop as you succumb to stabbing pains in chest, back, feet, shoulders, head, elbows, etc.

7)      Endure disapproving looks and ironic cheering from street-side voyeurs while you spend the rest of course walking and texting friends about brunch plans.

Good luck and let me know your success stories from following my 7-step plan to victory.  

The Keys to Unlocking the Male Brain. wait... I just had them... they're somewhere here in my purse...

I wanted to start by stating the obvious. Then, I'm going to illustrate with a few clichés.  Finally, I will tie it up with a seemingly personal anecdote veiled thinly in a tired metaphor.  Still reading?  Ok, see you next time.

In a marriage, it is really important that you never stop complimenting each other.  For example, a few nights ago as I was coming out of the shower, my husband said, encouragingly, "I know you said you were 'all crampy and bloated', but you don't look any different to me."

Swoon. An extemporaneous love poem.

From early on in our relationship, I knew the universe meant for my husband and me to be together.  It became clear to me when I first realized that there was no one else, with the ambulatory means to escape, who would endure such maddening idiosyncrasies. And that is what pure love is all about--stress-testing each other just to the verge of murder-suicide. It builds character.  As a collateral benefit, marriage is also about having a ready partner when your neighbors call you over for weeknight whiskey and canasta, assuming that will catch on again at some point.

To illustrate what I mean about the idiosyncrasies, my husband, when describing a delicious meal, will not use sensory adjectives like you would expect. Like "juicy", "salty", "rubbery", "rich", etc. I would even give him credit if he tried to be a little tony in his description.  "The hot dog mac and cheese was sassy tonight!"  You know, the things a normal human who can successfully function in society with the other humans might say. Instead, he prefers to rate everything in terms of its cost-to-benefit ratio… free steak, cheap pizza, exorbitant cheese fries, bargain sushi, looted wedding cake.  Clearly, he is insane.

However, one of the things I have come to appreciate about my husband is a certain lack of interpersonal conscientiousness or, rather, a lack of certain interpersonal conscientiousness. I know at this point it sounds like I'm just being a passive-aggressive, overly critical shrew. But, hear me out.  I mean, I am usually those things, just not right now.  I actually think most men are like this, and that can be a great thing.

When we were dating, I noticed a towel hanging in his bathroom. My keen eye discerned that this towel bore the indelible mark, by way of white monogram stitching, of the Arabic letters "H-A-N-N-A-H" which I instantly recognized, through advanced cognitive abilities, as a person's NAME, particularly one that is most common in the FEMALE tradition.

Of course, as it has been upheld in all American jurisdictions of which I am currently aware, the law of romance dictates that you hold on to the object of your unrequited love as a symbol of the assurance of your lifelong suffering. Therefore, applying this common law to my current situation, I understood that, in acquiring this "Hannah"-emblazoned textile, via whatever means it was acquired, it was done so with the intent that, when he gazed upon it, he would hearken to the sweet memory of the ethereal, young Hannah, which would then stir the restless hope that perhaps one day this Hannah would return to reclaim her property and would fall irreversibly in love and pledge her reciprocating devotion to him, and I, having been callously forgotten, would thenceforth learn only of their worldly jaunts, amassing of extravagant wealth, prolific child-bearing, and accumulation of academy awards through desperately frequent Google searches.

But now, having known this man for a decade, deeply--his faults and virtues, his strengths and weaknesses, his ambitions and his life's priorities and his personal worldview of justice--I now understand that the only thought this item conjures to him is, "Sweet, free towel." 

And that, believe it or not, is one of the great things about men.

Banana Fana Fo Fail

The web phenomenon registered as Pinterest.com has, already in its short life, left an indelible mark on this generation.  It has generated some of the most astounding deficits between human imagination and real accomplishment ever recorded, while AT THE SAME TIME has sparked stunning achievements in time mismanagement and procrastination.  Bored people worldwide finally have a platform by which to share, in some small way, in the actual labors of actually creative people.  This results (as noted by personal experience) in small, meaningless victories dotting a sea of abject failure.

For instance, I recently tried this thing called "mock ice cream", whereby one mocks his own sense of self worth by attempting to pass off frozen banana mush as the lovely, cold, creamy, fat-rippled, pants-expanding, artery-clogging, mood-enhancing stuff that originates from lactating cows.

I followed all the directions precisely as set forth by the dictator Pinterest.  I chopped a ripe banana and froze it in a Ziploc bag.  When I was confident that rigor mortis had overtaken the bananas, I flogged the pieces with a food processor, adding a little pomegranate juice and a handful of chocolate chips, until the goop reached the consistency of swamp sludge.  

The results were less than satisfactory.

So, I abusively shoved the disappointing goop back in the freezer and, after some time had passed, scooped the new, unidentifiably misshapen frozen mass with a melon baller (I do not own an ice cream scoop for some unfathomable reason), and the results were SLIGHTLY improved.

However, it tasted exactly how you would expect bananas to taste after they have been shamed by society into posing as something that they're not instead of embracing their own natural state.  

Put another way:  My three-year-old loves ice cream.  My three-year-old loves bananas. My three-year-old hid this banana ice cream in the pantry, where she thought I would never discover its existence. 

I will leave you with this open letter to whomever may receive it in kindness (and partly in fear):  

Bananas, you are good enough just the way you are.  Pinterest, you are a smarmy bastard.  We WILL meet again.  Oh yes, we will meet again.

House of Subjugation

I thought it was over. I thought I would get my autumns back. I thought I would get my family back. I thought the days of falling victim to the annual hostile takeover of my TV by the National Football League were over.  

You see, as the season was nigh upon us, my husband, with the seemingly gallant charity of a knight in King Arthur's court, announced that finally, mercifully, we could let our cable subscription go and rely solely on the discriminating tastes of Netflix executives for our entertainment. Oh yes, there may be gnashing of teeth. Waiting months for new episodes of anything, adding Amazon Prime just for Downton Abbey, TLC marathon withdrawals, and more disappointments from the makers of Arrested Development.  But the freedom!  Oh, the sweet freedom from the unyielding tentacles of National Football League would be palpable.

And then, like a stranger in a desert who'd been offered a cup of water only to find that the cup was full of sand, I discovered that the Xbox 360 has a free downloadable ESPN app featuring live and on-demand sports coverage.  My husband is an evil genius.

But, as hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, I have thought of something eviler and geniuser. POISON! (with Brussels sprouts). I concocted a scheme to lure my husband into a false sense of bacon security, eventually manifesting itself into his most fearsome vegetable nightmare. ha. ha. ha. ha. hahahahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAH! And then he's dead.  (Not really dead-dead, just maybe a little gassy with a strange aftertaste in his mouth-dead).

When the time was right, I set out on a perilous journey of uncertain fate.

All I had on hand that pivotal day were petite Brussels sprouts from the frozen steamer package. This is as the universe designed, because now I think the larger variety would have given away too much by sticking out on the sides.  

First, I thawed the sprouts, then I started cutting them almost in half to provide space to stuff them with cheese or, as I like to call it, the "make any food taste better-er". I only cut a few because I wasn't sure how long the bacon was going to last since I intended to cover the sprouts--dorsal, ventral, and everywhere in between. And, just to let you know how diabolical I am, the bacon wasn't even regular bacon--nay! Indeed, it was bacon's evil cousin, the dreaded and feared turkey bacon. BWAH HAHAHAHA.

For 6 of the sprouts, I began the bacon wrapping process at this point.  To 6 other sprouts, I added a sliver of avocado.  To yet another 6 sprouts, I added slivers of jalapeno.  Once I had the ingredients that I wanted lining the innards of the sprouts, I encased them all in a bacon straitjacket, secured by a toothpick.  I sliced the bacon in half, both ways, wrapping like ribbon around a box-shaped present.  

Then, I popped them into the oven, and let the convection fans waft the bacon air through the house while I sat at the table, waiting, violent horror rap playing softly in the background.  

My husband came home to the alluring siren smells, and I knew by the hopeful look on his naive face that my plan was about to work.  

At dinnertime, I gave two of the sprouts to my three-year-old who immediately blanched at the sight of them. But I did not let this minor slight discourage me because the real target had just grabbed a plate with a focused, greedy look in his eye.  

I turned to finish feeding the baby and to hide my expecting face, and, after a few minutes, I looked back and found that all 16 of the remaining sprouts had disappeared, consumed by the man who had dedicated (in part) his life to besmirching them.  

But then, his feeding frenzy put to an end only by exhaustion and lack of supply, he turned to survey the disassembled sprout jackets on my daughter's plate.  A look of horror and regret began to creep across his features.  "Was there something healthy in those?"  

Revenge was mine!

If you have occasion to serve up some of your own vegetable revenge, or if you just like tasty food, please feel free to put the following recipe to your own uses:

Brussels Sprouts Roasted in Bacon

Ingredients:

18 Brussels sprouts (I used petite-sized, but any size will do)

4 slices of mozzarella cheese, torn into small pieces

1 lb (1 pkg) of regularly sliced bacon, cut in half lengthwise and widthwise

1 heart of stone

Optional 1 diced jalapeno

Optional ½ c diced avocado

Optional 1 muddied conscience

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.   
2. Carve an X into the stem side of each the Brussels sprouts.  Stuff desired amount of cheese, avocado, and jalapeno into the X. 
3. Lay two slices of the cut bacon on top of each other to create an X shape.   Place one stuffed sprout in the middle, and wrap both slices around the sprout.  Secure with a toothpick.  Continue with the remaining sprouts.
4. Place on a foil-lined baking sheet and roast in the oven for 20-30 minutes.  They are done when the bacon has crisped up a bit and has slightly browned around the edges. 
5. Salivate.  Devour.  Conquer your foes. 

Good luck!  I will leave you with the following transcript of the actual conversation that my husband and I had later that night.

H:    I'm disgusted with myself for eating those Brussels sprouts.

Me:  You should be disgusted with yourself for not having eaten Brussels sprouts up to this point in your life.

H:     I feel like my body's tainted now.

Me:  Maybe it's tainted because of the eleven pounds of ballpark nachos lodged in your colon.

Half-Marathons and Other Ideas for the Criminally Insane

I swear I almost entitled this post "Let's Find Out How Desperate I Am For Attention." 

A few weeks ago my much more athletic, much more beautiful, and overall better person of a cousin called me to ask whether I would join her in running a half-marathon this fall. To which I replied, "Half?  Why not full?", followed by overly boisterous laughter, followed by "Are you still there?"

I then launched into upbeat panic conversation with the sycophantic stylings of Alex P. Keaton at a republican national convention.  I must have hyperventilated and passed out along the way, because the phone conversation ended with an email confirmation of my registration into the race, including a full financial commitment, guaranteed by the remainder of my VISA credit balance.  $120.....just to prove that I'm a failure at sports and self-awareness.

So I found a novice training schedule developed by Hal Higdon, who apparently is well-known in the running-is-also-a-sport subculture that has recently infiltrated the permeable barrier of normal, comfortably sedentary human society.  I modified it ever so slightly to accommodate my work schedule and to stealthily implant a massage a week before the race.

The massage really needed to be written into the schedule so that, if questioned, I can say, with genuine honesty, to my husband, "Well, there's really no way around it; it's right there in the schedule."  

You see, honesty is really important in a marriage.  That, and a working knowledge of contract law.

On the days calling for "strength," I am doing this routine.

Or I could collect all my daughter's princess tiaras and just lift them.

On the days calling for cross-training, I'm riding the stationary bike or, as I call it, a half-hour of sweating within inches of another person who is also sweating while pretending the other person isn't there (which is how my two kids ended up here).  SNAP!  That's another thing that's really important in a marriage---bedroom humor.  I think my husband really appreciates all the laughter when the clothes come off.

I never worked out much on a stationary bike before, as evidenced by my recent discovery that there is something called a "recumbent bike" which is apparently designed for people who find sitting in an upright position too taxing.  Obviously, this was my bike of choice.  I found a 30-minute workout on SNAP Fitness's webpage that left me breathless.  

So, I finished the first week of the program on Saturday.  Based on the lingering burning sensation in my lungs and the beginnings of what I can only assume to be para-paralysis in my lower half, I'm thinking that it would be less pain and trouble to acquire a time machine and travel back to just before my cousin's phone call to go ahead and just bludgeon my legs with a sledgehammer.  Only time will tell.

Listerine & Vinegar - Great for Feet, Terrible Cocktail

As many of you know, the relentless pursuit of maternal perfection occasionally necessitates a bit of temperance, just to keep the momentum fresh. During that short, almost undetectable, period of time, I will turn my attention ever so slightly to a personal, cultural interest, which, truth be known, really ultimately benefits the children anyway, if I'm being completely honest with myself.

Anyway, as I was perusing Pinterest, I found this recipe for a homemade Listerine foot bath/pedicure. Apparently, the chemical reaction of the vinegar and Listerine is somehow magically calibrated so as to melt away dead flesh like corrosive battery acid while at the same time caressing, with angel-kiss tenderness, the supple skin underneath. It sounded a bit ambitious, but because my feet look like this: 

What did I have to lose?

I soaked some socks in vinegar and Listerine and wore them while making work calls/chair-dancing to 80s music videos. I accidentally left them on about half an hour longer than planned because my three-year-old woke up from her nap demanding food and beverage service.  After I peeled off the socks, I performed a bit of wartime torture on my feet with a medieval looking device known in extremist pampering circles as a pumice stone.

 

Then I slathered on this stuff that I'd probably gotten as a bridesmaid gift somewhere along the way. I am choosing to regard the color as that of "fire-roasted island coconut" and not as what is more immediately recognizable to me as the combination of weeknight Boone's Farm and regret.

In the end, I did detect some improvement in the condition of my foot skin. It's hard to tell whether the Listerine made much difference. I kind of suspect that the real champion here is the pumice stone, which I sawed against my heel like I was trying to start a fire.  Either way, my feet smelled delicious.  And tasted even better!  ;)

Reason to Pant

One of the things I like to do since having kids is try to stay somewhat in shape.  Just a shade more specific than "vaguely recognizable as a human" shape, which is what I was going for before I had kids.

I really don't like to run unless there's a fleeing ice cream truck involved, but I do it anyway because (1) it's free, (2) it requires virtually no equipment, (3) it is accessible almost anywhere and in almost any condition, and (4) it gets me out of diaper changing duty for 30 minutes to an hour.  

I would forgo (1)-(3), if I could just get (4).  I've tried baths.  Does not work.  

The Couch to 5K program fits the bill for someone who is a beginning runner or an inconsistent runner, like me. You will routinely catch me in Week 1 of the program, having advanced and regressed alternately over the course of several months. I graduated to the Bridge to 10K program once in the last three years, so it doesn't feel completely futile.  I have found that paying a $35 entry fee coupled with some meaty humble-bragging to anyone who will listen that I entered a 10K serves as great motivation to persevere in a training program that I would otherwise scrap for an Always Sunny in Philadelphia marathon.


So, if I can coax myself out of bed before my husband leaves for work, I will run for exercise that morning.

Then, riding on the high of having achieved something any grade school kid accomplishes every day at recess, I will cap off the day with a little body weight floor exercise while watching Downton Abbey.  I'll do some girl push-ups, some triceps dips, some lunges, some squats, a few seconds of a solid plank. Then I will do this floor routine from an old Jane Fonda video that I memorized during that coming of age transition between 8th grade and high school. It consists of outside leg lifts, inside leg lifts, back leg lifts, crunches, a snappy attitude and a hidden agenda.

I do all this while my husband eats chips, reclines in the rocker, and critiques my form.