I left out the confession in which I confess to having not yet showered today.

I am quite sure that there are a great number of people who roll their eyes when I talk about Aerobic Dance Class. “We get it, woman, you like to dance aerobically, ENOUGH ALREADY!” I know. I KNOW, and yet, I can’t stop myself from writing about it.
I don’t write about every single class, because that would be annoying, but every once in a while, something brilliant will happen (DANCE OFF!) or I’ll have a “light bulb” moment whilst doing a “Funky Chicken” type move and I must write about it.

Last week, my AD instructor busted out with The White People Dances, specifically, The Irish Dance.
As soon as Anna said “Irish Dance” I mourned for my calves and how they would feel in the morning. Have you people seen the River Dance? All of those cute little jumping movements that they do whilst holding their hands sweetly at their sides?
Crap. My calves! They ache!
Confession: I almost cried during The Irish Dance. (FUCK YOU IRISH MUSIC!) I couldn’t explain it if I tried. One minute, I’m doing this crazy ass “white people” move in which I’m jumping up and down at a very high rate of speed and the next there are tears welling up in my eyes because of the sound of those asshole bagpipes. (Fuck you, bag pipes!) I do not know what came over me, but I was THIS CLOSE to “losing it” and I have no idea why. (Although, I’m pretty sure it was the damn bagpipes.)
Confession #2: I took a short break after writing confession #1 so that I could go unload the dishwasher and you know how my shitty cabinets do not close all of the way? Well, I was coming up from putting something in the bottom cabinet and I whacked the front side of my hide head on with the corner of the cabinet and I thought I split it open and while I didn’t get all “OMG! I AM PARALYZED!” like I did when I fell off of the plastic chair, I DID run to the mirror to see if there was blood. There was NOT blood, but there was, however, a “mark” and um, I feel a little dizzy now and um, it’s freaking me out because OMG! I COULD HAVE A BRAIN BLEED AND NOT KNOW IT!
Confession #3: I’m not doing so well with “The Weight Loss” and have put on a significant amount of weight. 15 pounds, but it looks like a lot more than that, because all of the toning that happened with the weight training has turned to fat and ack, it’s not good. I took a picture that I planned on posting, but, I feel embarrassed to post it right now. Maybe tomorrow. Why did I gain weight back? I’ll tell you why. I got sick of going to the gym every night (but I did not get tired of Aerobic Dance and continue to go to that, but, 2 nights a week of AD does NOTHING for weight loss. Especially when one is eating assloads of bread.) I got sick of counting points. I got sick of worrying about every single thing that I put in my mouth. I got sick of talking about weight loss, of thinking about it every waking minute of every single day. I got tired of ALL OF IT and I gave up and gave in to my desires to eat whatever I wanted and to be lazy. I just said “screw it all.”
Of course, I regret it now. All of that hard work, down the drain. Ok, not all of it, I’m no where NEAR as fat as I was when I started this journey, but still. I should be at my goal by now and I’m not. That pisses me off.
I plan on getting back “with the program” because I felt so much better when I was eating healthy and working out. And, as pissed off as I am, I refuse to let this stop me from reaching my goal. I’ve had a major setback, but it’s not the end of the world. (It is, however, the end of wearing the really cute skirts I had bought from Old Navy for at LEAST a month. Damn it.)
Confession #4: I am in love with Arbor Mist Sangria.
Confession #5: I have no idea how to end this post, so I’m just going to go ahead and end it here.

Generations


1972, in my Grandpa’s arms

2006, my daughter, neslted safely in the arms of my Grandpa
Isn’t life beautiful? It is so beautiful.
Grandpa’s doing better. So much better, they sent him home. I just called Grandma and she said he “ok” but she’s pretty sure that “he’s on his way out.” She thinks he’ll “stick around for Christmas” but won’t be around long after that.
Have I ever told you that my Grandma is the strongest, most blunt and MOST HILARIOUS Grandma to have ever lived? She doesn’t mince words, which can be VERY EMBARASSING when out in the general public with her, but my God, she’s funny.
I’ll never forget the story she told me of when she went back to Germany to visit her family. She attended a very large church while visiting and decided to get up and speak to the congregation. She told the people of how hard life was when she was young, how hard they had to work for every little bit they had and then, she proceeded to GO OFF on “those young, unappreciative brats.”
“When I was a young girl, WE WOULD SCOOP WATER OUT OF THE GUTTERS WHEN WE WERE THIRSTY and you young’ins walk around with your fancy, expensive water bottles, thinking your life is so hard. YOU PEOPLE DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO SUFFER.”
God, I wish I had been there.
The best stories EVER are from when her and Grandpa worked at “The Camp” with “The Koreans.” Oh, how Grandma loved the Koreans.
As funny as it is to me to hear the stories, I can promise you that it was NOT fun for the people who worked there because from what I can gather, my Grandma was slightly verbally abusive. Especially to “the young’ins” because “the young’ins” did NOT KNOW HOW TO STIR THE SOUP, MAN.
Grandma is very religious, very Nazerene. (Is The Nazerine still a religion? Or is my Grandma the Last Naz Standing? I do not know much about The Nazerine faith, but I do remember that dancing is (was?) FORBIDDEN.) She loves to watch Catholic TV, but only to laugh at how misguided those poor Catholics are. (She does not, however, like to watch basketball, because “those basketball players are tatted out, overpaid thugs who sexually assault women and smoke Marijuana.”)
I called her right now to ask her if she needs help with Grandpa. “No, I can manage him just fine, I don’t need any help.”
That’s how she is. She’ll NEVER admit to needing help. She’s strong, probably the toughest woman I’ve ever known, but I can’t help but think at almost 90 years old, she may truly need help but is unable to accept it.
Sigh.
The good news is that Gramps is getting better. Thanks for the well wishes and prayers for him. Now, maybe you can say a little prayer for Grandma Wilma. She’s going to need them, taking care of that grumpy old man.

The one in which I can’t stop crying.

When I was in Kindergarten, my Grandpa would pick me up from school every Wednesday to take me somewhere fun. Usually, we’d go miniature golfing, or to the trampolines. Sometimes, he’d take me to the donut shop next door to where he worked, or sometimes, to the bar where all of his buddies hung out.
I remember driving in his station wagon, standing in the backseat, my arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “I love you, Grandpa.” I’d say. “I love you too.” He’d say back.
My Grandpa used to drink a lot and from what I’ve heard, he was a mean drunk. My Grandpa hasn’t had a drink in over 30 years because of his love for me. He says that he stopped drinking because I didn’t like the smell of beer. I once asked him if he loved Jesus and if so, why did he drink beer? He stopped drinking beer that day and hasn’t had a drink of any kind since.
My Grandpa always used to tell me that I was his favorite grandchild, because I was his first grandchild. I’ve always known that I had a special place in his heart. I can’t tell you how much that’s meant to me over the years, knowing that my Grandpa thinks so highly of me.
grandparents.jpgOne year, for Christmas, I asked my Grandparents not to buy me any presents, but instead, to fill out a “memory” book that I had bought for each of them. They agreed and on Christmas morning, I could barely stand the excitement. I wanted to read what they had to say, how they felt about me, how they met and fell in love, what their favorite childhood memories were.
To this day, those books are the best present I’ve ever received. I sobbed like a baby as I read through both of them. One thing in particular that my Grandpa wrote still makes me cry every time I read it. Even more so today, as he lay in a hospital bed with a blood infection, IV’s pumping medication through his tired, old body.

“The first time I held you in my arms… I felt like life was finally worth living”

.
There I go with the crying again.
My Grandma called me to tell me he’s not doing well and that he keeps asking for me. I was going to go see him this morning, but Tony and the boys want to go, so I’m going to wait until they get home from school/work. I don’t want to see him hooked up to IV’s and in pain, but I know I HAVE to see him.
The year I got engaged, the doctors didn’t think he’d live longer than a year. I was sick with worry that he wouldn’t see me get married.
Not only did he live to see me get married, he’s lived to see all three of my children and oh, how he loves them. My God, he loves them. He especially loves Gabby. Perhaps because she reminds him of the little girl who loved nothing more than cruising with him in his station wagon, singing songs about Jesus while wrapping her arms tightly around his neck because she loved him more than anything in the whole wide world.
I still do and I always will. I just pray to God that he gets better, because I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet. Selfish? Of course it is. But he’s the only Grandpa that I’ve ever really known and I can’t even begin to imagine my life without him in it.

COOKAYS!

On the way to the hospital, my husband said “You have to wait on me hand and foot when I get home.”

“Oh really?” I replied.

“Yes. And you have to bake me cookies and serve them to me on a platter! Look! It shows you right here in the vasectomy handbook.”

Oh, how I laughed, because that? Was hilarious.

Whenever we’d talk about The Vasectomy, he would tell me about his fears. I would listen, then ever so gently remind him about the pain that I endured, three times over, to give him the children he loves so much. (Without an epidural and HELLO? I tore down there and had stitches.)

When he went in on Thursday, I knew he was scared, but when I’d ask him, he’d say “I’m ok, what you went through was SO MUCH WORSE.”

He was being sincere, I know he was, but I couldn’t help but feel like a jerk. Yeah, what I went through was worse but it was unfair of me to diminish what he would be going through just because “MINE HURT WORSE, MAN.”

My husband is admittedly a baby when he’s sick or in any amount of pain and yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s something about seeing him laying there with a bag of frozen peas on his lap that makes me want to take care of him and feel sorry for him and get him whatever his little heart desires. I LOVE that he did this for us, I love that he’s “taking it like a man” (whatever the hell that means) and I love that every time he hurts, he chants “My wife gave birth, my wife gave birth, THIS IS NOTHING, my wife gave birth.”

It kinda makes me want to jump his bones. Except, I am pretty sure that if I did that right now, I may kill him.

So, instead, I do nice things, like go to Barnes and Noble to buy him the latest copy of Shotgun News, let him control the remote, wake up every 2 hours to make sure he’s comfortable. But most importantly?

Day 20: Playing Nurse

I bake him some cookies.

Finally.

Operation:
“It” is done. And “It” is quite possibly the most HILARIOUS thing that has EVER happened in our marriage and I can not wait to tell you all about it.
Day 19: FINALLY! (The Vasectomy! It is done!)
But for now, there are bags of frozen peas to be applied, beers to be fetched, tylenols to be given, cookies to be served on a shiny platter (because THAT’S WHAT THE WIFE IS SUPPOSED TO DO! And there’s a picture in the vasectomy book to prove it!) and a pair of stitched up balls in need of a little love and um, tenderness.
*For the Record: I have full permission to post the photos.

Prissay

I’ve been taking G-Unit to the park everyday after I drop the boys off at school. I go for a walk, do some squats, throw in a few totally awesome kick boxing moves and then we head for the playground for some fun on the slides and swings.
I love watching my daughter play with the other children. She’s so… girlie. I didn’t expect that from a daughter of mine. I’ve never been very “girlie” or “feminine”. In fact, my husband used to do this cute little thing where he’d introduce me to his friends as “My Wife, The Trucker.” I guess I always imagined that if I had a daughter, she’d be just like me! Man, was I wrong.
And I’m happy I was wrong. I can’t tell you how much fun it is to watch my daughter stand on the sidewalk, her tiara placed proudly atop her head, hands placed sweetly on her hips, twirling from side to side while she shouts to the neighbors “Look! I pretty! Look! Lala’s pretty!”
Day 16: Tiaras piss me off(My daughter wears a tiara! And she likes it. Doesn’t she know that her mommy hates tiaras?)
Sometimes, her “Girlie-ness” can be very annoying. Like when she cries because her nail polish is chipped, (“More polish mommy! MORE POLISH! WAH!”) or when she has a meltdown because I refuse to let her play with the lipstick that she snuck out of my purse. But most of the time, watching her act “like a girl” is the most fulfilling experience of my life. Especially when she emerges from her bedroom, wearing nothing but a tutu and her tap shoes whilst twirling with her hands in the air singing her ABC’s.
Through her, I’m finding out that being “girlie” (“feminine” whatever.) can be fun. I’m starting to like the idea of painting my nails “just because” and not only when I have a wedding to attend. That said, I will NEVER like tiaras. (Nor, will I ever give up burping contests or farting whenever the hell I want to.)

Obviously, Wanna Be Writer’s Block is still in full effect.

Years ago, I hired a personal trainer. (I hired him for 10 sessions, but only actually showed up to 3 because Oh.My.God. He wore Dove shorts! And had excessive body hair! He seriously grossed me out enough to not show up for 7 PREPAID sessions, because DUDE…Dove shorts.) In the 3 workouts that I managed to get through without puking, he taught me proper techniques for lifting weights and using the machines.
I have to admit that deep down, I feel superior because of my (very limited) knowledge of weight lifting technique, but the truth is, I really don’t know shit.
Last night, I was laying on the bench, doing some free weight chest presses, quite possibly feeling cocky whilst using my Proper Weight Technique, when all of a sudden, my left arm starting burning like a bitch. I thought it was strange that I hardly felt anything in my right arm, but justified it by saying “Well, I’m right handed, so my left arm is weaker!”
I noticed a woman walk by and look at me, because at that point, I could barely lift my left arm. My right arm was all up in the air waiting for the left one to get up there and join it. I was grunting and pushing myself through the lobsided pain, when I suddenly realized the problem.
I was using a 8 pounder on my left arm and a 5 pounder on my right. I was mortified because HAHA! I’m a jackass! But, instead of correcting the problem by getting the proper weights, I tried to play it off by switching the weights, as if to say “YEAH, I DID IT ON PURPOSE.”
I can’t help but worry a little bit about having uneven arms, like, one being bigger than the other. Like my boobs!

(PigHunter also recently pointed out to me that one of my eyes is smaller than the other, so I’m just one big, sexy hunk of uneven body parts! Too bad for you, I’m Taken, bitches.)
I need to look into taking up a sport because 2 days a week of Aerobic Dancing isn’t going to cut it and Freestyling it at the gym just isn’t working out the way that I had hoped it would. As much as I wanted to believe that it would grow on me and that one day I’d love it, maybe even master it, my unequally sore arms are further prove that it just isn’t “my thang” and I don’t think that it ever will be.