She Broke The Rule

Fair Warning:  this post is about a very crass subject.  So if you don't want to read it, I understand.  May I recommend Loose Leaf Writing, Annabel Manners or The Bitchy Waiter instead. 

And if you read it anyway, (Mom), I don't want to hear about it. 

I was recently in a ladies room.  I had to pee.

Because in a ladies room, it is acceptable to:

1. Pee
2. Reapply Lipstick
3. Change into gym and/or going out clothes

It is NOT acceptable to

1. Crap
2. Shit
3. Poop
4. Fart.  (unless you are CERTAIN it cannot be heard)

Poop is OK if you are under 6 and your mom is taking you to the ladies room.

Ladies rooms are not for taking a dump. 

If you have to drop one, go home.  YOUR home.  Ladies never ever ever pollute an other's home.

I understand that these rules should be relaxed for certain ladies.  Some visitors from other nations may not know the rules.  Pregnant women are exempt, as are very senior citizens.  (Mom, I know you're still reading.  I mean senior citizens older than you.  You can't go into a public restroom and drop a load).

I know all the women reading know this.  I was just explaining to the men.

On the way home from work tonight, I popped into the ladies' to pee.  A well dressed, 40ish woman was already there.  She was applying lipstick, which, as I explained earlier, is perfectly acceptable.

We exchanged courtesies for a moment.  Then we each headed for our stalls.  We didn't take adjacent stalls, because it is against the rules to sit in adjacent stalls unless the bathroom is full.  (I think even men have this rule).

It wasn't long before I heard a loud, wet squelching sound.  Then a soft grunt.  Then more sounds.  Then water splashing.  

Then I hear her get on her cell phone.  Cell phones are still a grey area.  Personally, I vote against talking on the cell while in the facilities.  Especially when the call sounds like this:

"Hey". . .squelch. ."whatcha -- ungh -- doin'?" . . splash.

OMG.

Oh. Mah. Gaw.

OH MY SWEET JE-AY-SUS- IN HEAVEN!!!!!!!

SHE KNEW I WAS IN THERE. 

How could she not know the rules?  She was clearly a middle income, middle aged AMERICAN woman. She wasn't even middle aged.  She was my age!  She had an i-phone for chrissake!

Could she not have at least waited until I left?  Seriously -- how long would it have taken me?  Pee, zip, wash hands.  Two minutes.  Five minutes tops.  She can't hold it for five minutes before she stinks up the bathroom that I am using too?

What is this country coming to?  We already have a sign in every restroom that says EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS AFTER USING THE TOILET.

It's bad enough to have signs that say DO NOT FLUSH SANITARY PRODUCTS DOWN THE COMMODE.

Sometimes you even see that stupid rhyme:  IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE, PLEASE BE NEAT AND WIPE THE SEAT.

Do we have to post signs saying: LADIES DO NOT TAKE CRAPS IN PUBLIC BATHROOMS ESPECIALLY IF THERE IS SOMEONE ELSE IN HERE.

Sheesh.

Mom -- I'm serious.  Not a word.  I mean it.  I'll call you later.

Feeling Grownup. . .

I have "officially" been an adult for 24 years.

I admit that sometimes I feel old, but I don't usually feel like a "Grownup".

Maybe it's because I am the youngest person in my office.  I dunno.

But this morning. . . .

After dropping my littles off to school, I was heading to work down a busy avenue.

Two tweeny girls were walking to school.  I knew they were tweens because they were both dressed exactly alike -- and they obviously weren't sisters.  I should say that they were both accessorized exactly alike, as they were wearing the requisite white-polo-khaki-pants uniform.   They each wore pink hoodies, identical pink sketchers and carried identical Justin backpacks.  They each wore their hair tied in a pink chongo on top of their heads.  They walked with that self-conscious gait that tweens have.  They were cute.

Then, one of them tosses her Red-Bull can on the ground.

Excuse me?

Were you born in a BARN?

Without thinking, I pulled my car into the median, rolled down the window, and in my best MOM voice, yelled:

"Sweetie!  Pick up that can you dropped!  Find a trash can and throw it away.  I KNOW you know better."

Slightly chagrined, Tween picked it up.  Good girl.

MOM voice said:  "Thank you, honey.  Have a good day, okay?"

It was a reminder that I am.

I am.

I am a GROWNUP.

Kids have to listen to me.

I can boss them around if I want. 

All I have to do is use that voice that all my mom's friends used on me when I was a kid.  Mrs. Klumb, Mrs. McHugh, Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Reeves.  All the great ladies of my youth were with me as I gently but firmly corrected a young lady.

Sure, they can cuss & smoke and do rebellious things when I am not there.  Sure, Tween might have tossed the can back on the ground as soon as I left.

But I am going to give her the benefit of the doubt. 

She knows she has to listen to a grownup.

Crushes, Puppy Love and The Real Thing

There are some men that I think are dreamy.   You know what I mean.  They make me sigh.  And swoon.  And giggle.  I guess you could say I have a crush on them.

My boss is dreamy.  He is.  He's about 6'2", slim, with a lantern jaw, bright blue eyes and silver hair.  He is also the consummate southern gentleman.  I've always thought he was very handsome, but now that I really know him, I simply adore him.  He is as beautiful inside as out.

Dr. Mark Escamilla is dreamy.  Yes, he's very nice looking, but his dreaminess is more because he is so innovative, so connected, and so real.  He also has the most beautiful family -- lovely wife and 2 precious littles.  I swear I'd give the man a kidney if he needed it.

Vic is dreamy.  I mean it's obvious.  Incredibly fit, handsome, and so encouraging on my fitness journey. 

I even have a tiny bit of a cougar-crush on Ricky, who is Vic's assistant.  He is just the nicest guy.  Also very handsome, if you think Leonardo De Caprio is handsome -- and I know you do. 

I love these guys.  I do. When I get all swoony over Dr. Mark, or Vic, or any of the many many many men (and women) that I have a crush on, the casual observer may misconstrue my intentions.



Because I don't wanna kiss them or anything. 

I don't want  my children to look like them. 

I don't want to grow old with any of them.  (In fact, I am pretty sure I will be dead by the time Ricky is old)

The man I really love is Greg, my husband.  He's the one I want to kiss, etc.    He's the one my babies look like.  He's the one I want to grow old with.

Greg knows that I think the world of these people.  He also knows that he is my whole world. 

And he knows I think he's super dreamy. 

Doing it all. . .

Are you impressed with me that I an a mother of three, work a full time job, blog, go to graduate school, blog, workout regularly, blog, and volunteer at my church?

Don't be.

Because there is no way I could do it without my husband.

Husbands are funny.  Wives like to get together and roll our eyes over the silly things they do.  Like teach our children to burp their ABCs.  At least they know their ABC's right?

My husband works two jobs -- three if you count the "architect-on-loan" deal he is doing right now.  My husband works most of the weekend, because architects are all about deadlines.  And budgets, which is why he doesn't bill most of his weekend work.

My husband does the dishes every night.  We don't own a dishwasher, and he can't stand to see dirty dishes left over night (I can), so he does them. 

My husband really likes our kids.  I like 'em too, but Greg thinks playing with them is the funnest thing since skateboarding.

My husband gets that my job is super important to the family because there is less a threat of layoff as with his, and because I carry the insurance.  He also gets that I really enjoy it.  He supports me going to school because he knows that I need a Masters in order to move ahead. 

He supports me volunteering at church.  Really, we're both volunteering.  I am at the church, he is at home with the boys.  Believe me, both are important.

He doesn't read my blog unless I make him.  Which is good, because he would be super embarrassed if he knew that I was writing about him.

I just thought you should know. 

It's my husband that enables me to do it all. .. .

I don't know how he does it!

Bragging a little

I'm kinda proud of myself today.  Since I started V-Fit, I'm down about 15 lbs, and 9% body fat.  The 9% is the big deal.  According to the AMA, I have officially reduced my risk of diabetes, heart disease and stroke.  Yeay me.

But what make me REALLY proud of myself is that I did burpees today.  Burpees are these crazy exercises where you put your hands on this log thing, kick both your legs out into the push up position, then jump your legs back in and then jump up.  Then you have to do 19 more. 

They are very owie.  But I did 'em!

I also did something I never thought I'd do.  (No not that.  I do that all the time.  How do you think I have been happily married for almost 18 years?)

When I was first starting out, I met these really great girls who work out with Victor.  (Holla Maria & Laurie!)  They are cute, fit & strong. 

I remember watching Laurie squat jump with both feet onto a step.  I thought "No.  Fucking. Way."

(Mom, Phyllis & Nora -- don't bother e-mailing me about my language.  I know, I know.)

Today I SQUAT JUMPED WITH BOTH FEET ONTO A STEP!  

OMG!

When Laurie does it, she looks sleek & strong.  When I do it, I look like the Michelin Man's chubby little sister.  Who cares?  I did it!

So I'm bragging a little.

Gift of Fat: Empathy

I feel bad when people are hurting. 

I think I have empathy because I know what it's like to be teased.  To be judged. 

One of my friends killed himself last weekend.

I can't imagine what he felt, how he struggled, what was going through his mind.  I have no idea.

I have no idea what his family feels right now.  All I know is that it's pretty bad.

I know that whatever he was feeling that night, he was struggling to get away from it. His bible was with him, passages were highlighted that give some clue of what he was asking God.


In the end, the depression -- or whatever it was -- won.

Is it empathy to be annoyed with people for saying things like:

"All he had to do was reach out and we could have helped him"
"Why did he do it?"
"Nothing could be that bad."
"He was a Christian, how could he?"

I know we all grieve differently.  I know we are all sad -- and mad -- that this happened to our friend. 

I just can't help feeling that people are judging him.  And it makes me angry.  Is that empathy? 

KK, I hope you are OK now.

Back to Grad School

I am working on my MBA.

I am working on it VERY S-L-O-W-L-Y.

I am taking it slow because I am paying cash. The only debt we have left (except for our house) is the one million dollar student loan we are paying for my architect husband's masters degree. Which he finished in 1997. And, if you will refer to my post about the frickin' Brady Bunch, you will know that architects don't make the kind of money that Mike Brady led everyone to believe. Bastard.


I graduated from college (Go Big Red!) in 1988.  That was last century.  I have a degree in Political Science.  Which, for all intents and purposes is useless.  

Wait -- it's not useless.  It's just not terribly useful.  There is a difference.

I am pursuing my MBA because I work for a College.  If you want to ever get promoted at a college, you must have a Masters.  Preferably not in Political Science.

Getting a Masters is very interesting.  For one thing, it makes me feel old.

I am not the oldest person in my class.  There is one woman  older than me, but she just finished her Bachelors.  I got my Bachelors TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO.  We didn't even have laptops back then. 

Ironically, graduate school also makes me feel like a petulant 5 year old.  This is because in each class I have taken thus far, the professor has felt the need to give us this lecture on the first day:

"You are in Graduate School now.  You must expect to do higher level work.  You can't just coast through."

No Shit, Dr. Sherlock.  I know he is talking to the 22 year olds and not to me.  Do graduate students really behave so badly?  Really?

Last semester was fun.  There were a lot of undergrads in the class.  We had to do group projects. 

I said "who wants to be in the group with the old lady?"

Immediately this little frat boy raised his hand.

I looked at him & said "You just want me to buy beer for you, don't you?"

This semester is all graduate students.  All very young looking graduate students.  I feel like a chaperon. 

I'm not buying beer for anyone.