Extreme Buff Camp

On Saturday morning, I did something kind of crazy.
I enrolled in Extreme fitness boot camp.
That means that starting tomorrow morning, and every morning, five days a week for the next six weeks, I will wake up at 4:45 am (four! forty! five!) to get ready to be tortured with various outdoor exercises for an entire hour.
Drastic, but absolutely necessary.
I’ve gained eleven pounds in the past few months. Then I’ve lost those eleven pounds and then I’ve gained them back again. It’s frustrating, it’s unhealthy. Truth? I can’t blame my thyroid disease. I can’t blame the fact that I am insulin resistant. (Because all of my test results are great!) I can only blame the fact that I’ve been too lazy/exhausted to work out consistently. Also? Chick-Fil-A chocolate milkshakes, which are basically the best thing to happen to my mouth since bean dip.
I need to be challenged (bored to death of the gym) I need to be pushed out of my fitness comfort zone. Fitness boot camp seemed like the perfect thing to get me out of this funk. I can’t lie– I’m terrified (because I am a Fitness Wimp) but I’m up for the challenge. I want to see how far I can push my body, I want to see what I am capable of outside of Zumba and running on the treadmill.
And I can’t lie, I want to get buff.
For the next six weeks, I plan to write about my experience. I hope to be able to share new exercises that I learn and hopefully some healthy recipes (I say hopefully because I am SO BAD at cooking, but I will try!) Once the six weeks is completed, I will share before and after photos/measurements.
Wish me luck. I’m gonna need it (so that I don’t end up in urgent care. Because I ALWAYS end up in urgent care.)

Hacked!

Yesterday I tried logging into MT so I could write a post about my husband creating a secret garden. (And by “secret garden” I mean he planted an entire garden and didn’t tell me about it until the garden had already produced monster size zucchini and the corn plants were as tall as the fence. Like, one day he was just all “hey, come check out my corn plants!” and I was all “corn plants? WHAT?” Then, he walked me to the side yard, and I saw corn plants and zucchini and strawberries and MOFO TOMATOES. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? That a husband would plant a garden and not bother to tell his wife?!) Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, right! I tried logging into my blog and couldn’t. So I went to check on my blog and nothing was there. Just a blank page. I emailed my hosting company and they were all “oh, there was an HTTP error, but we’ve fixed it. However, your site is still down.” That confused me very much because you fixed it but it’s still broken, huh? I got an email from them a few minutes later that made me cry. It had the words “compromised” “attackers” “injected” “obfuscated(!!!) and “malicious.”
My site had been hacked.
I immediately panicked. I imagined worst case scenario (losing all of my archives and every story I’ve written about my children, for my children, about my husband’s penis, Judy the Senior Citizen Stalker!) I was sent a list of instructions on how to fix it, but I’m not that smart and had absolutely no idea how to make the changes necessary.
I started to cry. Then I started freaking out on Twitter. Which is never a good idea.
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The Eight people who still read this blog were all “Oh no!” And I was all “I know, right?” And then I MAY have said something super dramatic like “RIP, Joy Unexpected.”
But look! The blog is not dead! That is only because Joelle came to the rescue to save my it. She deleted files and upgraded MT and probably a bunch of other things that I do not understand. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have a friend who always makes time to help me through my blogging emergencies. She really is the best and if you ever need a new blog design, you should totally hire her.
This experience has made me realize how much this blog means to me (I kind of want to punch myself for saying that, but it’s true.) I have been neglecting this blog and the wonderful people who read it. It’s just… life, man. It’s never easy, right? And sometimes, it is downright hard. Most days, I find myself so busy I don’t have time to pee, much less time to blog. It’s crazy and it’s stressful and I’m doing my best to survive each day (one day at a time, one foot in front of the other, one milkshake followed by a glass of wine at a time and all that jazz.)
If almost losing this blog has taught me anything, it’s that I need to stop drinking milkshakes and start writing again.
I swear, the next time my husband secretly plants a garden, I’m gonna blog ThatShit immediately.

Pulling Teeth

This morning my daughter came running into the room while wiggling her front tooth.
“I think it’s ready to come out, Mommy!”
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This was both awesome news and dreadful news because pulling out a tooth= drama. There is excitement, fear, nervousness. There is laughter, crying, screaming followed by more laughter, crying, screaming.
It started out like this: “Pull it out! I’m ready!” and quickly turned into “STOP IT! WHY DID YOU PULL SO HARD!”
This “okay, pull it!” “STOP PULLING IT!” game went on for a better part of the morning. I’d beg her to let me try just one more time. She’d give in, but the second I’d start tugging, she’d be all “Stop! It hurts! I’m never letting you touch it again!”
The thing is, I’m not the kind of mom who can be all “It’s okay, sweetie, we’ll try again when you’re ready.” I’m hardcore (or is it, “I’m half Mexican?”) I’m like “let me pull that tooth out so we can move on with our lives, kid.”
Gabby wasn’t having it, so she spent a very long time in her room, trying to pull it out herself. Which was kind of cute, but mostly frustrating because I just wanted to pull that effing tooth out of her precious little face? Head? Mouth?
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An hour or so later, she came back into the room, ready to negotiate.
“I will let you try to pull it out, if you promise to stop when I make THIS noise.” And then she made this very loud noise.
I was all “Okay!”
(Notice, I didn’t say “I promise?”)
The second that I began to pull the tooth, she made THAT noise. I didn’t stop because I knew that tooth was less than 3 seconds from coming out. She started to scream, not realizing the tooth had already come out and was in my hand.
She started doing that super crazy laugh that kids do after a tooth has been pulled out of there mouth and ran to the mirror to admire her new smile.
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After she was done celebrating, I asked if I could wiggle her other tooth to see if it was ready.
She put her hand up, Stop in the Name of Love Style and said “Don’t even THINK about it.”
I agreed to leave that tooth alone for now. But that tooth is on notice.
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Sex and Blankets and Awkward Conversations With Teenagers.

As I began making my bed, my son Ethan walked into the room.
“Need some help, Mom?” He asked.
“Sure.” I responded.
He walked over to the other side of my bed and began to help me make the bed.
(Confession: I’ve had the same blanket on my bed for twenty years. I’ve purchased other blankets, but this particular blanket is amazing. My husband bought it in Tijuana just before we got married. It is ugly– it’s brown and has an image of a giant tiger on it (I KNOW, I KNOW. )–but it is soft, it’s warm, it’s basically the best blanket ever made.)
“I love this blanket, Mom!” Ethan said, as we straightened it out.
I then went on to tell the story about how old it is and how much I love it and how I’ve tried to part with it many times, but can’t seem to let it go.
“I plan on getting a new comforter soon and when I do, I will let you have it. Do you want it?”
“Yes!” He said, all excitedly.
Then he paused, his facial expression went from Pure Joy to Kind of Disgusted.
“Oh, maybe not. This is the blanket you and Dad have made love on for twenty years.”
“ETHAN MICHAEL!” I proclaimed, while not making eye contact.
“It’s true, Mom!” He said, as he laughed at my discomfort with the words he was saying.
In my mind, I was all “flip it around on him! Make HIM uncomfortable! Say something like ‘damn right! lots of Jesus Approved Sex has happened all up on that blanket!” But I just couldn’t do it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! You guys were all adopted!”
He laughed, rolled his eyes and walked out of the room to tell his brother about our conversation.
Talking about sex in general with my kids? Easy.
Admitting, discussing that I have sex with their dad? Not so much.

That’s, Like, a Lot of Love. I Think.

This morning I had to make an emergency trip to Target. (Starting my period at the exact same time I ran out of toilet paper= emergency.)

I brought Gabby along, which is always fun. (Will you buy me this, please? BUT I NEED MY OWN DEODORANT! I’M ALMOST SEVEN!)As we were walking down the aisle to buy mommy “Diapers for her blood” (FUN!) my daughter began to profess her love for me in a very loud voice, because she is a very loud talker.

“Mommy, I love you so much! Do you know how much I love you?”

“You love me as big as they entire world?”

“Yes!”
But she wasn’t finished.

“Mommy, I love you more than…”

All of the pretty flowers?
The warm sunshine?
Jesus?
Your favorite stuffed animal?
chocolate cake?
a beautiful rainbow?

“Mommy, I love you more than I love going to the bathroom.”

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