I really wanted to write about what could easily be called The Best Aerobic Dance Class EVER. I’m not just saying that because I remembered the routine and did NOT mess up when the instructor forgot the moves and how I kept going and how the instructor was all “VERY GOOD EVAN” (that’s what she calls me and oh, how my heart melts when she calls me that) and how when we were finished with the dance, she turned, looked right at me, started cheering and said “BRAVO, EVAN!
BRAVO!
SWEET REDEMPTION.
God, how I want to tell you all about the class last night, but, man, I need to talk about my daughter.
Do you mind if I talk about my daughter?
I think she’s the most beautiful, loving, funny (She farts on command, people! Which reminds me, last night, my husband asked me to stop commanding her to fart because, apparently, one night when we were having a Farting on Command-athon, she “squirted” a little and when he went to give her a bath, there was a streak of wet poop in her diaper and GOD FORBID HE HAVE TO WIPE A STREAK OF WET POOP. Seriously, people, he asked me in a SERIOUS TONE to stop “commanding her to fart.” Ha! Ha! I love my life!) little girl I’ve ever known. I’m constantly in amazed by her personality and MY GOD, I love her.
I love her. I love her. I love her.
However! She’s turning into a stinkin’ little brat.
Funny thing is that whenever I mention this to people, their response goes a little something like this “Well, DUH!”
People say things like “of course she’s a little brat, she’s got all of you people spoiling her. How could she NOT be a little brat?”
The good news is that she is not an “asshole” brat. She’s more of a “throws herself back and screams in a high pitched voice when she doesn’t get what she wants” brat.
Come to think of it, she’s not really a brat at all, but more of an “overly emotional drama queen who refuses to keep her diaper on during naptime.”
(Can you tell I’m uncomfortable calling my Precious Daughter a “brat?”)
She’s always been prone to The Dramatics, but it seems to be getting worse.
(Bonus: The Dramatics: A slide show.)
Girlfriend gets pissed in the blink of an eye. One minute she’s kissing and hugging me, the next she’s trying to bite my finger off.
I think part of her “acting out” has to do with her inability to communicate what she wants. You see, my daughter doesn’t have a great vocabulary. It’s crazy to me and my husband because our boys were both early talkers. They were talking in complete sentences before they turned two. We get excited when G-Unit puts two words together. And they’re words that DON’T EVEN MAKE SENSE.
Let me give you an example of her vocabulary.
“DoeDoe”-Cereal (and yogurt)
“Beebee”- Blankie
“hmpeeet”- armpit
“duddee”- Duckie
“buhwhat”- Butt
“brubers”-Brothers
And so on and so forth.
Total improvement from her vocabulary of two months ago, which basically consisted of EVERYTHING (Except BOBS, DAD, MOM and NO) being called “DADA.”
This is how a conversation went back then.
Her:DADA!
Me: Blankie?
Her: NO! DADA!
Me: Crackers?
Her: No! DADA! DADA!
Me: Um, You want to color?
Her: NO! WAH! OMG! DADADADADA
Me: UM, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, CHILD OF MINE?
Her: pointing to the TV- DADA!
Me: Ohhhhhh! You want to watch TV?
Her: DADADADA!
You get the idea. It was maddening.
I’m sure if she could articulate her needs that she’d be less prone to do things like “bite her brother in the face” when he doesn’t understand that “DOODOOGOBODOBRUBBER” means “back the hell up and stop kissing me RIGHT THIS MINUTE!”
I’m not making excuses for her biting, because it’s unacceptable behavior, but! If someone was all up in your grill and you your jibber jabber couldn’t convince that someone to kindly remove themselves from your grill, wouldn’t you get frustrated at your inability to communicate your need for them to STEP OFF?
Or, maybe I am making excuses for her biting because having a child that bites is embarrassing!
My boys were NEVER this demanding, this dramatic, this… this… DIFFICULT.
Is it a “girl” thing? Is it a “last child” thing? Or is it just a “GABRIELLA” thing?
Or, perhaps it’s a “We’ve really turned into crappy parents in our old age” thing.
Gah.
Respect…my consultantship.
Yesterday, the sky was unbelievably blue, with bright white clouds scattered about. A sharp contrast to the gray, smog filled sky the day before. A crisp blue sky is rare here in the polluted “Inland Empire” of Southern California, so you KNOW I had to go grab the camera to document the special occasion.
My God, it was such a beautiful day. Warm sunshine, clear blue sky, puffy white clouds. It made me happy. So very happy. (Oh my God. The Cheese&trade)
The kids weren’t too happy when they heard me say “Watch Gabby, I’m going to get the camera.” Infact, I’d say they were very UNHAPPY and at one point, threats were handed down because OH MY GOD, JUST LET ME TAKE A FEW PICTURES AND STOP ACTING LIKE I’M TORTURING YOU, DAMMIT.
Eventually (after many threats of “if you do not let me snap this shot, NO PAINTBALL FOR YOU!”) they stopped whining and I was able to get a few really great pictures.
What is WITH my kids and their raging hatred of my camera? Seriously. (I’m sure my kids, along with other family members, would say something like “We hate your camera because you ALWAYS HAVE IT IN OUR FACES.”)
The weather put me in such a great mood yesterday, that after months of complaining about not having extra money, I agreed to finally stop complaining and actually DO SOMETHING to try to contribute a little extra cash to this household. OMG! People! I am going to sell candles. ME! SELL THINGS! TO PEOPLE!
This is such a giant step for me, as I NEVER take chances with anything because I? Am Chicken Shit. I always SAY I’m going to try things, but then, when it comes to actually DOING things, I get scared of failing and think of a million reasons why I would suck at it and never follow through because I’M SCARED SHITLESS OF FAILING.
Yesterday, the blue skies and clouds made me think “Hey! I love these freaking candles! Why not sell them so I can earn free candles AND make money!” So, I told my friend “Sign me up TODAY!”
Now, I’m regretting it because they sky is no longer blue, but cloudy and overcast and I do not think I will meet my 6 shows/$1,200 in SIX WEEKS quota and OMG. I AM A PATHETIC PERSON WHO DIDN’T GO TO COLLEGE AND SHOULD NEVER TRY THINGS THAT DO NOT INVOLVE WIPING ASSES AND COOKING DINNER.
That is how my mind works and that is why I never try things that could possibly make me successful. I am scared. I do not believe in myself the thought of having to annoy friends about having a party makes me want to PUKE.
So, um, hey, Internet, who wants to have a “book” party for me? ANYONE? HUH? UM NO IT’S OK YOU DON’T HAVE TO SORRY I ASKED OK THEN BYE.
(Oh my God! I can’t do this! And, oh my GOD! remember how I used to be all “TAKE YOUR CANDLES AND SHOVE IT!”? And now? Am.Selling.Candles. AH.)
Tony was all up in my grill last night, telling me things like “You need to take it seriously” and “You better meet your quota because I aint paying for that kit, woman.”
He’s supportive in his own, cute little way.
I do plan on taking it seriously. Well, as seriously as I can take the selling of candles, but I am allowed to freak out before I actually start taking The Selling of The Candles seriously.
Because Ha! Ha! I am a seller of candles.
(p.s. have no fear, this will NOT turn into a “buy candles from me” blog. I PROMISE YOU.)
I’m hoping to go deaf before they get to the part about “wet dreams”
A couple of weeks ago, my son announced that Sex Education was going to start and I needed to sign the permission slips.
I signed them without any hesitation because I was the ONE AND ONLY teenager in my class that wasn’t allowed to participate in sex ed. I’ll never forget how humiliated I felt when the teacher announced that I needed to leave because I wasn’t allowed to participate because MY PARENTS CHECKED NO.
Well, the classes started last week and let me tell you, I’m having a hard time with the whole thing.
Talking about sex with my boys when they were small was easy for me. But as they get older, it became more difficult because, well, you know, BONERS AND STUFF.
I have been asking him questions about The Sex Ed everyday because I want to be involved and in the know about what they’re teaching my son about The Sex. And also? I’m trying to pretend to be completely mature and NOT IN THE LEAST BIT UNCOMFORTABLE with the whole thing but let me tell you, it’s so completely uncomfortable. (For both of us.)
The other day, I picked him up from school and because I am truly trying to be “open and totally ok” with The Sex Ed, I was all “So! How was sex ed? What did you learn today?” And he was all mortified and turned white and said “It was totally gross and disgusting.” And I was all “Why!? What did you talk about it?” And he was all “Um, I don’t want to talk about it Mom.”
I honestly think he would have rather allowed me to stab him in the leg repeatedly with a #2 pencil then continue the conversation, but DAMMIT, I am an involved, open minded parent and I was not going to be shut out like that.
“Son, I’m your mother, there isn’t anything you can’t tell me. I already know everything you’re learning, so tell me.”
“Ok. We had to watch the movie about ‘girls.’ And we learned about, you know, tampons and stuff.”
At this point, I had conflicting emotions. I kind of wanted to throw up because OMG. VAGINA TALK WITH MY 13 YEAR OLD SON IS FREAKING ME OUT, but, I also wanted to be mature and matter of fact because VAGINAS ARE A PART OF THIS THING WE CALL LIFE.
I tried to be mature. I honestly did, but The Akward took over and I took the TOTALLY IMMATURE ROUTE. I started tickling him and saying things in a really high pitched voice like “HAHA! Andrew knows about The Period. TAAAAAMPPOOOONSS. WEEEEEEE!”
Can you feel the akwardness?
The next day, he stormed in to the house and said “MOM! Sex Ed is getting grosser by the day! Today we had to watch a baby be born.”
My first thought was “Holy SHIT! My son saw a V-A-G-I-N-A” and, again, I wanted to throw up, but this time I took the high road, people.
“There’s nothing gross about a baby being born son, it’s natural and a beautiful, spiritual experience that changes your life forever in the greatest way.”
I think he likes it better when I act 12 because the kid didn’t know how to respond.
“Whatever, mom. There was blood and amniotic fluid and um, mom…”
I panicked a little because, OH MY GOD! What if he’s about to say something really gross, like “And the womans vagina was all hairy” so I started thinking of ways to cut him off. Perhaps I could interrupt him by saying something really important, like, you know, “hold on, I have to fart!” but before I could interrupt, he finished his sentence with “And the baby looked like an alien.”
What a relief! I did not have to hear my son say “vagina”, but! I did have to hear my son say “HYMEN”, (As in “Hey, mom, is a HYMEN a male or female part, I forgot” to which I responded with a dry heave and a “Um, which do you THINK it belongs to” because um… I totally wasn’t prepared for him to blurt THAT out all non chalantly.)
Knowing that my son “knows things” now is effecting me in ways I never imagined. For instance, the other day, Tony and I were making out in the room and when he got up to go outside, I was all “OMG! You can’t go outside like that! Look! You can see your, um, you know, boner and ANDREW TOTALLY KNOWS WHAT THAT IS AND OMG. WHAT IF HE NOTICES?”
(True story! I actually freaked out about that. OH MY GOD. HELP.)
Perhaps I’d have a completely different attitude towards this whole “Discussing sex with my children” if my parents had discusssed sex with me. But, my parent did NOT discuss sex with me, except to tell me that you get pregnant by standing too close to a man and so I’m kind of lost as to how to not make it one big “HAHAH YOU KNOW WHAT A PERIOD AND A HYMEN IS” joke.
OMG! DANCE OFF!
Last night I was excited to get back into “the gym scene” as I have slacked off lately.
I’ve missed 3 Aerobic Dance classes in a row. Which is a record for me because I NEVER miss Aerobic Dance Class.
Imagine my HORROR when some lady who I do not know stood at the front of the class to announce that Anna had cancelled and there would be “no Dance today.” Instead, it would be just regular ol’ aerobics.
Regular ol’ aerobics are DUMB.
I wanted to walk out, but I was in “my spot” in the front of the room and didn’t want to look like a poor sport, but inside? I was throwing the biggest tantrum. And I was kind of mad at Anna, how dare she get sick, or too busy to come and teach me new moves. HOW DARE SHE.
The class started and I couldn’t stop rolling my eyes. No! Seriously. I kept rolling my eyes and sighing. IT WAS SO DUMB.
About halfway through the Dumbest Routine Ever, she decided to throw in a few token, but TOTALLY DUMB dance “moves.” If you can even call them “moves.”
At that point, my eyes almost got stuck in the back of my head from the rollage because DO NOT EVEN TRY TO PRETEND LIKE YOU ARE AEROBIC DANCE INSTRUCTING, YOU POSER.
I really was hating the instructor at this point, because The Lameness was overwhelming, but then, she said five little words and TOTALLY REDEEMED HERSELF.
“Make the moves your own.”
Sweet Mother of Aerobic Dance. She had just given me permission to bust out my Aerobic Dance Greatness. I don’t think she realized the monster she was unleashing by uttering those words because HOLY CRAP, people, DID I EVER MAKE THE MOVES MY OWN.
I’m embarrassed now that I think about it, but in the heat of the moment, I truly thought I was “The Shit.”
She was all “Let’s do the charleston.”
So, we did the Charleston and about halfway through, I decided it was time to kick it up a notch and show her what I was made of and um, the part where you kick back? I went down to the floor and SLAPPED THE GROUND.
It took her a few times to notice, but you better believe she noticed. She was all “Whoa, look at how low she can go.”
Recognition from the intructor ACHIEVED.
Obviously, she was not aware of the fact that it’s best to NOT encourage me.
The chick behind me didn’t like the fact that I was being singled out for my greatness. She also was in awe of my TOTALLY AWESOME “Slap the ground” move and decided it was time (try to) OUT FREESTYLE AEROBIC DANCE ME.
She started doing all of these crazy moves, which made me feel like I had to “one up” her and so then I started doing these crazy moves right back at her and OMG. She wasn’t intimidated and broke out this one really awesome move (which, it kills me to admit that, but damn, why didn’t I think of hopping on one leg first?) Before you know it, we’re in this FULL ON (silent) AEROBIC DANCE WAR and OMG! I started to panic inside which caused me to get desperate and do things I NEVER would have thought I’d do on the Aerobic Dance Floor.
At this point, I think the instructor caught on to what was happening because, SERIOUSLY PEOPLE, it was pretty damn obvious and OH MY GOD, I can’t stop laughing just thinking about it because I MADE AN ASS OUT OF MYSELF but, because I think I am the Greatest Aerobic Dancer to have ever lived, I couldn’t stop myself. But, back to the instructor. She knew what was going on and wasn’t sure how to handle it. It’s like, she knew she’d have to declare “A winner” somehow, someway before a)someone got hurt by busting out a dangerous move b) someone got punched in the vagina because, honestly, don’t EVEN try to step to this, biznitch.
This is the part where I start to cry on the inside again because a winner was clearly chosen and it was NOT me.
The instructor liked one of the moves that my competitor busted out and said something like “Look at her go.” (And here is where I admit that I FULLY thought she was talking about me, until she verbalized what the move looked like and I realised that I hadn’t done that move.) Then, and, this is the part that hurts SO BAD, she asked the girl to stay after class to “brainstorm some new moves” after class because she really liked her moves.
As if having my ass handed to me in a silent aerobic dance off wasn’t heartbreaking enough, I had to come home and read that my sweet, beautiful, partially deaf Elliot was voted off of American Idol. I kind of hate America for that, but not as much as I hate that obviously blind and very dumb dance instructor for not having choosen ME as The Winner.
HONK.
This morning, at around 6am, I hear a the horn of a car go off about 6 times in a row. Two very long beeps, followed by 4 short ones.
My first thought was “Who in the hell thinks it’s ok to honk at 6 am? Do I need to go punch someone?”
But, I was willing to let it go because I was tired.
A few seconds later, MORE REPEATED HONKING. This time, I wasn’t going to let it go because whoever this asshole was had crossed “The Line.”
I don’t understand people who are too lazy to get out of the car and knock on the door. It’s acceptable sometimes. Like, if it’s raining, or if the person knows you’re on their way and you tell them “I’ll beep when I get there.” But most times, I think people who do that are just being lazy and rude. However, when you do that shit repeatedly at SIX IN THE FREAKING MORNING, you’re not only lazy and rude, you are also A BIG DICK! Congratulations!
I was seriously ready to kick some dick ass after having been woken up by an inconsiderate honker. I ran outside, found the Honking Offender, made eye contact, raised my hands up in the air in the “What in the HELL” position and screamed “Get out of YOUR CAR AND KNOCK, DAMMIT.”
Apparently, Dick Honker didn’t know who he was dealing with because instead of fearing me, she, ( and you’re not going to believe this) HONKED IN MY FACE. She looked right at me, laid her hand on the horn in dramatic “screw you!” fashion.
I can not tell you the rage that burned inside of me. My first reaction was to run with my bra-less self and fight her! But I had sleeping kids in the house and who runs to fight someone when they have little kids sleeping inside?
Just one more reason to LOVE this ‘hood of mine.
As if I needed Another.
freaking.
reason.
MY American Idol.
I’ll be voting for Elliot ALL NIGHT tonight.
I love Elliot. Did you hear that Internet? I LOVE ELLIOT.
Bless his little heart.
People don’t think he’s pretty enough to win and to those people, I raise my middle fingah high up in the air and kindly tell them to SUCK IT. The kid can sing. His voice is powerful and I kind of want him to sing songs to me ([little voice]while I stroke his 98% deaf ear softly[/little voice] and cook enchiladas for him, because, yes, I daydream about cooking enchiladas for him, whilst he sings to me.
Dear Body,
Making peace with you, learning to love you is harder than I imagined it would be.
You gave me my beautiful children, my three beautiful children. It should be easy to love you for that reason alone. I do love you for that. I do.
But, my God, I hate you too.
I hate you because I am a slave to you. I hate you because there are so many things in life I’ve not been able to do because of the fears and insecurities I have about you.
Your sagging breasts embarrass me.
Your gaping hole of a belly button repulses me.
Your stretch marks humiliate me.
Your loose, hanging skin infuriates me.
The excess fat that you continue to hold onto so tightly angers me.
My husband loves you. He desires you. He thinks you’re beautiful. Sexy, even. I don’t understand how he can feel that way. I truly do not.
I want to feel the way he does about you. I want to love you. I want to love looking at you, or at the very least, not want to puke when I look at you.
It’s hard to look at you without crying. Especially when I compare you to other, beautiful bodies. Or to the way you used to look.
You used to be so beautiful.
I know it’s not fair to compare you to other women, or to your young self. But it’s hard not to. Everywhere I look, I’m bombarded with images of bodies that look nothing like you. It’s hard not to feel like a freak of nature when all of the images I see look so completely different than you. I once saw images that looked similar to you. It was a campaign for “real beauty” and I cried with joy and suddenly didn’t feel like such a freak. But then? I heard people talking about how ugly those bodies looked and how they were repulsed by what they had seen, and how those women had NO business taking pictures in their underwear because no one wanted to see all of that and suddenly, my tears of joy turned once again to tears of shame and hatred towards you.
I’ve become more comfortable with “The Clothed You.” I would have NEVER taken Aerobic Dance Class in the past because I would have been too ashamed and self conscience of my Lumpy Ass, or the Jiggly Arms. But after having shed a few pounds, I have learned to accept my Clothed Self.
But when the clothes come off, HATE HATE HATE what I see.
I’m tired of hating you, of fighting with you, of wishing you were different. So very tired of wasting all of my energy in that way.
I just wanted you to know that I don’t want to hate you or be ashamed of you anymore, I’m just completely lost as to how to NOT feel this way anymore.
But I’m working on it. Be patient with me.
(I wrote this at 1am this morning. I’ve debated if I should post it or not because people get so damn angry at me when I write about my body, but if I let Angry People stop me from writing what I want to write, than I might as well shut this blog down because that’s DUMB to censor myself based on what people will think.)
Error
I had been working on a post about my history of “issues with food and body image” since late last night. It was very long, extremely personal and brutally honest. As I was writing it, I cried (thinking of the horrid things I’ve put my body through all in the name of “trying to be skinny.) I laughed (Ha! Ha! I once threw a burrito across the room because it wasn’t EXACTLY as I had ordered it and when I want a burrito, it better be done right because chances are I was eating it as one last “splurge” before I went on a crazy diet.) I got angry (Why can’t I make peace with food?)
As I was re-reading to check for mistakes before hitting “Save”, a huge white box flashed before my eyes with the words “Firefox has caused an error. Firefox will NOW CLOSE.”‘
And just LIKE THAT, the entire post and all of the emotion that went into it was GONE.
Do I need to tell you how pissed I was? Because OH MY GOD, I WAS SO PISSED OFF.
But HA! HA! Not as pissed off as my daughter was when her dad had the NERVE to tell her “No!”
Sweet Mother of Bobs, she is SO much like me. I mean, seriously, that is exactly what I look like when Tony forgets to bring home ranch dressing for my curly fries, or, you know, when FIREFOX CRASHES and takes my post with it. LUCKY TONY, having two Emotional Basketcases in this house.
But, seriously folks, Firefox can suck my Milky Big Ones. Damn it.
The one in which I email Jay Mohr and tell him to “Scroll to the bottom” so he doesn’t have to read about me farting in aerobic dance class.
Tonight Aerobic Dance Class was Ceraaazy, people.
I admit that I get more pumped up then a person should get about dancing aerobicly. I also admit that I am EXTREMELY COCKY about it and pretty much think I am The Best Aerobic Dancer in the mutha fucking HOUSE.
Anyway, cute Aerobic Dance Instructor with the Perfect Buttocks was all “Tonight, we do Hip Hop/Jazz combination.” And OH MY GOD. I wanted to scream because A COMBINATION DANCE IS A DREAM COME TRUE. I held it together on the outide, but on the inside, I was dying (DYING!) from excitement (ok, and my mouth was watering a little too.)
The dance started and they were pretty simple “moves.” So of course, the other wimmins thought they were all that and started to get all cocky. Totally uncalled for, bitches. (I know, I know, I’m cocky, who am I to talk? Um, only The Greatest Aerobic Dancer to have ever dance aerobic-ly. That’s who! REPSECT THAT SHIT.) I was like “hell to the NO on that. It is *I* who rules the room, it is *I* who Gets All The Moves The First Time. Don’t even try it.” Seriously.
She starts incorporating the harder moves and do I even need to tell you that I nailed each and every one of them? No. I do not.
Finally, we get to the end of the dance and she does this TOTALLY AWESOME MOVE that I nail the first time (Of COURSE I do!) At least I thought I nailed it until I feel a woman furiously tapping my shoulder and hear screams of “You’re RIGHT hand, not your left, your RIGHT!” My first reaction was one of shock, like, I KNOW she did NOT just touch my aerobic dance arm in a violent like manner. But, as I was thinking of how to take her down for even thinking of STEPPING TO THIS, the girl next to her shouts “yeah, I’m following YOU, so if you’re gonna stand in the front row, you should get it RIGHT.”
I’ll let that sink in for a minute.
What.The.Hell?
I couldn’t believe what was happening and that THE WIMMINS WERE HOLDING ME ACCOUNTABLE FOR THEIR MISTAKES. As if I was some kind of Aerobic Dancing GOD who they look up to and who is not allowed to make mistakes. UM. I am not the Instructor, but a mere student of The Aerobic Dance. I realize that I am awesome at it and I’m flattered that they look up to me in that way, but no one forced their asses to follow ME. Hello? Am not the instructor. DO NOT EVER TAP ME ON MY ARM OR SPEAK TO ME DURING THE DANCE EVER AGAIN.
To get them back (and this is a true story!) I let one rip towards the end of class and gave them a little something “special.” But that’s not even the best part. Oh no. You see, after I ripped one, I turned around and looked at the “two who tried to step to this” and made a face like “HOW DARE YOU.”
What can I say, Aerobic Dance brings out the absolute best in me.
In other completely unrelated news, my “friend” (no! really) Jay Mohr asked me if I could get a group of 50 people together to go see him at The Irvine Improv this weekend. I didn’t have the nerve to tell him I only know like 29 people in real life, but I was all “Sure! I will ask the people who read my BALAWWG if they want to go with me to see the show!”
Anyway, if you’re in So Cal and you know, want to go see a great comedy show, email me, or just purchase tickets from The Improv and I’ll see you there.
(His buffness is TOTALLY worth the $$. Oh, and he’s kinda funny.)
Man, this is going to be embarrassing.
The one issue I’ve been completely honest with on this BALAWWWG is my weight/body image. I’ve always talked openly about my struggle with weight and hating my body (except for that “one time” when I let The Mean People win and swore I’d never talk about my weight again because I didn’t like getting mail that said things like “put the hamburger down, quit whining and go to the gym, you fat ass whale.”)