I am a Dirty, Dirty Girl

I have been working out REALLY HARD since July 2010.

I joined Weight Fucking Watchers.

I quit Weight Fucking Watchers.

I ran 14 5Ks and a 10K.

I joined Weight Fucking Watchers again. 

I stopped drinking ALL POP in February 2012.

I quit Weight Fucking Watchers again.

I stopped eating dessert (mostly). 

I'm still fat.

Then I read this on my friend' Jaimie's Facebook page.

I felt like someone was speaking to my secret soul.

It was like an epiphany:  I'm still fat because of what I'm eating!

Stop saying "No Shit, Sherlock".  That's not what I mean.

What I mean is that all this Weight-Fucking-Watchers crap and their 100 calorie treat bullshit and their frozen meals and special scales and cookware and all that other crap is not going to get rid of my fat.

For someone who has 30lbs or less to lose, WFW is a good solution.. 

For some of us chronically obese, it's a tease.

We need to eat whole food.  "Clean" food.  Real food. 

That's the solution.

The problem is, I am a dirty, dirty girl.

I don't cook, I assemble.  Open this can, open that can, heat and serve.

Before I had kids, our refrigerator had staples like anchovy paste and balsamic vinegar.

Now we have cream of mushroom soup and Kraft mac & cheese. 

Remember the pink slime headlines a few months ago?  Some people were really grossed out.  Me?  I was all 'Who wants McDonald's?"

I love dirty food.

Frozen White Castle Cheeseburgers.  Spaghetti-O's.  Pop Tarts.  Frosted Flakes.  Hungry Man Enchilada Dinner.  Kettle Corn.  Oreos.  Flour tortillas.  I could go on and on and on.

Let me be clear -- I do NOT eat that stuff every week.  I won't even let Frosted Flakes or Pop Tarts in the house.  But I am not above opening a can of something and eating it.  And really enjoying it.

But it's keeping me fat. 

Even if I only eat it sometimes.

So we're cleaning up.  I can't go cold turkey.  I'm an American for Chrissake. 

But I'm trying.

And it's really, really hard.

Things I Can't Say on Facebook

I have to get these out or I will explode:

"Your son looks very handsome, but WTF is his date wearing?"

"She made you carry PARASOLS in her wedding?  In 2012?  That would pretty much end it for me.  You are a good sport."

"You don't like Obama.  I get it."

"You don't like George Bush.  I get it."

"I am NOT sharing that shit"

"Why am I looking at a photo of your dinner AGAIN?"

"I agree that positive comments are nicer to read than negative comments, but you are WAY overdue to say something snarky.  Your posts make me wanna puke."

"So you de-friend people just because they disagree with you?  I disagree with you all the time.  When I DON'T comment on your post?  It's frequently because I disagree with it."

Your pregnancy was interesting for the first 13 months.  Now?  We're over it.

"You know, you are overdue to say something kind.  You're being an asshole"

"I love to follow your fitness journey.  But is that all you ever talk about?  Geez mix it up, will ya?"

"Who are you again and why are you asking me to friend you?"

"Why did you post that self portrait?  You are much better looking than that IRL."


Usually, I post my blogs on Facebook. 

Not this one!

Eating My Words

Last year I railed on about how lame Kindergarten graduations are. 

Because they are.

This year, #3 is finishing his final year at the daycare where all my boys have been since they were babies.

He could actually stay an additional year, as he won't be five until December, which means he won't be in kindergarten until fall 2013.  But since this is #1's last year at the elementary school, and the school has a K-4 option, this is the only year we are able to have all 3 kids in the same school.

This is the only year we get to drop off with one car.  One time.  ONCE. 

Couple that with the fact that #3 has been in the "oldest" class at the daycare for several months already, it's clear that it's time to move him up. 

Move him out. 

I am sorry, but this is hard for me. 

We have been at the "CLC" (Children's Learning Center) since #1 was 6 months old.  That's 10&1/2 years.  That's longer than husband & I have been in our jobs.  Both #2 and #3 started there when they were 6 weeks old.

Some families abhor the idea of putting small children in daycare.  I have a relative who makes statements like "I could never let strangers raise my children".  Except they have not raised my children.  And they are not strangers. 

Miss Christine, Miss Belinda, Miss Amanda, Miss Julie, Miss Gracie & Mrs. Adela taught all 3 boys.  Their photos are in our family scrapbooks.  The pageants that they coordinated are the backdrops of some of our most cherished memories.  The art projects they supervised crowd our walls and our refrigerator.   We truly love these women who have truly loved our children. 

One of the events Mrs. Adela coordinates is the "Graduation" ceremony for the kids moving on.  She has been getting them ready to move on for weeks.  Paul has been talking about his Graduation for ages.  He was very particular about what he HAD to wear ("Mrs. Adela says BLACK shoes, Mom."  "But you don't own any black shoes, honey".  "Well then YOU better explain to her". )

The graduation was a luncheon.  Miss Amanda made spaghetti, salad, bread, tea and cake for everyone.  The children sang us songs -- "Friends Forever" and "This Little Light of Mine".  The teachers reminisced about things the kiddos did, things they learned, and what they enjoyed best.  Paul liked learning about Dinosaurs and is proud that he can write his name, just like his brothers. 

The teachers made a little yearbook for the parents.  Each child tells what he or she plans to be when they grow up.  Clayton wants to be an astronaut.  Alex will be a fisherman.  Lauren wants to be a princess.  And Paul?  Paul wants to be a priest. 

As I watched my youngest happily belt out This Little Light of Mine, I teared up.  Not because I am sad that he's moving on, but because I am sad that WE'RE moving on.  Our days of babies are over.  It's not that I want them to be babies forever -- I don't.  I want them to grow to be good men.  It's not that I want more babies.  I don't.  I really, really don't. 

It's just that I will miss this time.

Thank you CLC.  Thank you for preparing my boys for school.  We love you.

Cutest Stinkin' Photo EVER

I love my Mom

When people tell me that I'm really funny, I remember:  I got that from my mom.

When they say I'm a good writer, I remember: I got that from my mom.

When they say I am a good volunteer, I remember: I got that from my mom.

When they admire my relationship with my in-laws, I remember: I got that from my mom.

When they admire my perspective, I remember: I got that from my mom.

When I shop for bras, I remember: I got that from my dad.  Dammit.

I love you Mom! 

Head Over Heels

I fell off my shoes today.

You read that right.

I FELL off my fucking SHOES.

Here's what happened:  I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed my handbag, a 33.8oz bottle of water and a snazzy portfolio containing today's must dos.  I was wearing an adorable pair of capris with a black v-neck top, and a coordinating pair of grey & black patterned pumps from 9 West. 

I love these shoes. 

They have pointy toes, show a bit of toe cleavage and have cute spiky little heels.  They aren't too high -- just 3 inches.  I have lots of shoes higher than 3 inches.  Lots. 

As I headed towards the building, George greeted me.  He just bought a new car and wanted to show it to me.  So I changed directions and walked towards George's new car.  My heel must have lighted on a pebble, because my foot wobbled and then. . . .crash.

I mean CRASH.

My handbag went flying.  The bottle of water rolled away.  The portfolio burst open and today's tasks littered the parking lot. 

George tried to stop my fall, but having taken a spill or two in the past, I knew it was better to just fall.  I instinctively tucked my arms in, landed on my side and rolled to my back.  My shoes swung helplessly in the air. 

Shut up.

Then I got up, dusted myself off, admired George's car and slightly limped back into to building.  I told George that I was fine. 

I was fine.

Until 10 seconds later when George gets the following message over his walkie talkie:

GEORGE YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO DO A REPORT ON THAT SLIP AND FALL

I said "George -- who the fuck was that?"

He said, "Oh, that's Angie.  She's on East Campus"

East Campus?  East Campus is like three miles away.  She saw me from three miles away?

"She saw you on the camera."

On the CAMERA.


It's not that I've never fallen in a humiliating way before. 

In High School, my BFFS Karen, Fran, Leslie, Liz & Kristen decided to do a girls night at Carlos Murphy's.  Just to be clear, it was the '80s, it was the suburbs, and Carlos Murphy's was a fun fresh concept and not a tired ass cliche.

We were wearing our requisite mini skirts with flats (mine were yellow) (Shut UP).  Our hair was as high as Aqua Net could make it.  We had stylishly accentuated eyes, lips, and cheekbones.  We?  Were GORGEOUS.

Heads turned to watch as the six of us made our way to the table. 

I remember the sound of glasses clinking, murmured conversations, sizzling fajitas and cheesy Motown  hits.  I don't remember the sound of the hostess saying "Watch your step".

Know what happens when you miss a step on glossy sautillo tile while wearing yellow Payless flats?

You fall face first under a family of five who are enjoying a blooming onion.  At least one of your shoes flies far, far away. 

Fast forward a few years, and I am in Santa Monica, CA at my first job at Enterprise Rent a Car.

I'm hung over, wearing glasses for a change because I seem to have stored my contact lenses in gin instead of saline.  Ow.  I'm wearing a tight skirt, cream colored top (with a fresh coffee stain) and Payless heels.  The heels were worn away to the nails, because at ERAC, we spent all of our time tottering around parking lots to rent the cars.  Cheap shoes were a must back then.

It was my turn to take donuts to Lynch Motors on Santa Monica Boulevard.  I held two boxes of donuts and a gigantic roll of green stickers.  We are supposed to give the service guys the donuts, and put the stickers with our phone number on their phone.  The donuts are balanced on one hand, the stickers are in the other.

I walk down the service bay when both feet suddenly skid out from under me and I land squarely on my back with -- sigh -- both feet in the air.  Again.. 

The donuts go flying and the roll of stickers rolls all the way to the showroom. 

The reason that incident was so humiliating was that every car in Los Angeles was driving past Lynch Motors at that exact second.  Everyone I came in contact with all day said "Are you OK?!  I saw you wipe out in front of Lynch Motors!"

If I had time, I could tell story after story of me falling on my face in front of someone. 

In fact, I have another story here.

Falling is nothing new for me.

But today?  It's on CAMERA.





Similar to the pair I wore today.  My shoes have improved in quality, but not stability.