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Girl, where’ve you been?

Oh, how I wish I had some exotic locale to say that I’d decided to make my new home, but sadly, nope. I’ve just been busy. I mean, really busy, and yet, if you were to ask me what I’ve been doing, I’d be grasping as straws to tell you. Let me see if I can cull together some highlights of what’s been going down.

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Tennis — so you remember how I told you that I had been hitting the courts at least twice a week?  Things have been going really well.  My lessons and my hard work are paying off.  I can actually see improvement!  I’m breaking my bad habits while the new ones are taking hold. I’m not saying I’m ready for the USTA and any tours, but I’m feeling more confident about the regular doubles matches that I play.  I’ve been regularly subbing in this round robin comprised of 8 senior citizen ladies.  Seriously, I’m playing doubles with the Golden Girls.

The woman closest to me in age is 53 and the oldest is 78.  No joke. The first time I played with them, one of the ladies kind of burnt out in the warm up.  My partner, who is 68 says, “Damnit, Patsy! I came here to play, not to watch you huff and puff on the sidelines.  I told you to stay on your oxygen.”

Holy. Crap. Cakes.

The woman with the oxygen was quick to tell me that she’d had a mini stroke during one match, but kept on playing.  Yo! Don’t sleep on these old broads.  They’re playing through strokes, they had me running like windshield wipers all over the court for these drop shots, and they talk more trash than the Waste Management Authority.

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 P90X – What can I say? 30 days are behind me and I’m down 4 pounds and 3 inches from my waist.  Clearly, something is working.  You know, Tony Horton gives a little confessional at the beginning of each workout, going on and on about what this particular work out is going to do for you and how if you want to see results, you better “bring it”.  The ab routine, called Ab Ripper X , has this confessional, too. He’s all, “Oh you do 349 moves.  And you’ll have ripped abs, yadda, yadda, yadda.”  Then he looks into the camera and says, “Ab Ripper X! I hate it. . . .but I love it. “

I’m on week 6 and as far as me and Ab Ripper X go? I hate it. . . .no, I just hate it.

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Glee — My new favorite show!  I can’t remember how I got hooked on this one, but the next thing I know, Netflix couldn’t send them fast enough.  When that got maxed out, Hulu and I became besties.  I was walking around the house, laptop in hand so I could watch episodes. I watch the show even while the DVR is recording it. I know, it’s ridiculous.  Probably because I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, I’m living vicariously through this show.  Seriously, I lip sync “Happy Birthday”.  Anyway, I’m a “Gleek“, I’ll admit it.  First of all, I want Emma Pillsbury’s wardobe.  I even found this blog about what she wears and how you can find similar knockoffs.  Click here and thank me later.  If I could sing, I can’t decide if I want Rachel’s voice or Kurt’s. And if Mr. Shue does one more Color Me Badd/Vanilla Ice/Tone Loc cover I am going to die of embarassment for him.

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Reading — I have been looking for a good book for a while now, and I finally got my hands on something halfway decent. Of course, I burned right through it, but that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve got a good read.  I was reading two books at once, “Self Made Man” by Norah Vincent and “The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox” by Maggie O’Farrell, but I realized I could really enjoy the latter until I finished the former.  It was like eating my veggies in order to get to dessert.  I mean, I like vegetables, but we all know dessert and I have a very special relationship.  Very special, hence my new relationship with Tony Horton.  When it comes to those 4:45a work outs, I feel like Antoine and Blaine:

But I digress. 
I’m looking for another book to give up my household responsibilities for, so send titles my way.  

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Hanging out with BBC — My brother has been in town twice in the past two weeks, which has been really nice.  He’s come over for dinner and some quality time with the girls.  They’ve tried to con him into reading entire shelves of books, they manage to get from their chair into his lap throughout the course of a meal, and effectively relieve him of his iPhone to play Flickr Fish until someone (Morgan) cries that someone else isn’t sharing (Coever).  Last night, we went out to dinner with a girlfriend of mine and cut up like we had nothing to do tomorrow.

Several margaratini’s, margaritas, and a sangria later, the sweater comes off and the smiles come out!

We are definitely doing this again.
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Pretending to be Annie Liebovtiz — DH and I have been talking about getting a new camera.  I think I’m  ready for an SLR, even though it doesn’t have the sleekness of the compact models, and even though it means I’ll be schlepping more stuff around with me.  I’m just ready to take better pictures.  With that, of course, means learning about all the tips and tricks that go with SLR photography.  I got some books from the library, but I’m wondering if they’ve got a Rosetta Stone for Digital Photography because the vocab alone is enough to make me break out some flash cards to keep it straight.  Sure, I’d be tempted to just learn as I go, but an SLR, especially the Nikon D90 (*drool*) is was too pricey to waste time trying to figure it out.

My friend, Lacey, was kind enough to let me test drive her Canon PowerShotXT.  SO nice.  I had no clue what I was doing when I would increase or decrease the ISO (I’m still not entirely clear on what ISO is anyway), nor did I really see a difference between AV Mode and M, but I did get some nice pictures of the girls.

And DH even turned the camera on me for an impromptu snap session a la Austin Powers. 

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The Usual — I’ve been running errands, chauffeuring girls to school and playdates. I’ve hauled out the sprinkler, grilled burgers, had drinks with a neighbor (thanks, Kim), gone to the library, Target, Trader Joe’s and back again.

We took the girls to Jamestown, we went to see my parents, we went out for sushi with my brother and Morgan proceeded to eat her California rolls, Coever’s California rolls, my dragon roll and my mom’s Umi.  Then she asked for dessert (definitely my child).

I’ve gone to a baby shower, I’ve been to birthday parties, I’ve hung out with my girlfriends more than I have in months and I’m loving it.

I’ve been told I’m “too smokin’ hot” to wear flats all of the time, so I’m working heels into my wardrobe rotation.  Point of Clarification: You know you need to make some changes when you throw a pair of heels on with some jeans and folks start asking you why you’re all dressed up!

 Sadly, I did something to my knee last week, so I’ve been “keeping off of it” but really, that just means, I’ve scaled down from 20mph to about 18mph.

 I’ve been working on this post for two days!  More like eight if you count the six days it took me to organize this in my head.  I haven’t spell checked it either.

I’m just too busy.

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IN: ON: May 13, 2010 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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It’s Been Brought’n

DH and I have recently secured our seats on the crazy train by starting the P90X training program.  I know, I know, it’s that incessant infomercial with Tony Horton demanding that you “Bring It!!” in order to get that ridiculously ripped physique you’ve been hiding behind those extra pounds from last years  Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah.
At first I was a huge skeptic.  I mean, I got taken by Billy Blanks and Tae Bo.  I did The Firm — I mean, an alum from my high school was one of the testimonials!  And those things do work. Just not when you’re downing margaritas, grilled ribeye fajitas, and guacamole a couple of times a week — not that I would ever do that (now).  My allegiance has been to the double W and the YMCA.  However, after all of that, I do find that my clothes continue to shrink from non-use.  DH had reached his own max tolerance level and suffice it to say, we’d reached a point where enough was enough. 
My brother, in his infinite wisdom, stared doing P90X without reading the materials. He hooked himself up with a guy at his gym who had read all the stuff and somehow they’ve forged an unlikely alliance where they do the routines. Anyway, by the time we decided to get in on the action, my brother was well into his 90 days.  He thoroughly enjoyed telling us how relentlessly Tony Horton pushes you to “Bring It”,  how your body will sue you for alienation of affection, and how pylometrics is nothing short of walking on broken glass with a hot poker shoved up your kiester.  
There’s a guy who does the jump training video, and he has a prosthetic leg  A prosthetic leg! 
I fully expected to drop dead after the first day. 
Thankfully, my body has responded to the hours I’ve logged in at the Y, in particular at Ginny’s step aerobics class.  I’m not saying that I didn’t break a sweat during that first go round of Chest and Back, but I seriously considered putting my Y membership and my tennis membership on hold until the 90 days was up.  There was no way I could do all that.
DH and I are doing this madness together, which is nice.  We boost each other up, we egg each other on. We tease each other when certain noxious gases rip out during squats and sit-ups.  I had to stop in the midst of the Ab Ripper X routine because every time DH did a sit up, he let out this groan that sounded like a rusty nail being scraped down the side of an aluminum washboard.  My abs were sore from the laughter, not the Mason Twists.  And when the decline pushups smacked me around so that I literally landed on my face,  my arms quivering (I was fully prepared to spend the rest of my life inhaling carpet fibers in exchange for regaining use of my arms), DH was there to gently assist in lifting and lowering me so I could finish the set.  My goal is 5 reps and oh, I loathe each and every friggin’ one. 
Anyway, the one downside I’ve found is the time of day we’ve chosen to do this thing.  In order for us to do this together, we’ve decided to get up at 4:40am and just hit it.  Ugh, it’s ugly.  I’m on autopilot at that ungodly hour.  Somehow, I manage to get a sports bra on the right way, my feet in my cross-trainers and my body down the stairs in one piece.  By the time we’re done, all my pistons are firing, the girls get up and we get our day going. 
By 11am, I’m usually ready to hibernate. 
The other day, I dropped the girls at school and ran some errands.  The sun was shining, the sunroof was open, and I had about 10 minutes of limbo time between the end of one errand and the time I had to scoop up Coever.  I was getting kind of sleepy — all that Vitamin D coming through the windows and all.  I tipped my head back a bit, and few minutes later, I sneak a peek at my watch.  15 minutes had gone by!  I motored in to get Coever, kicking myself for nodding off.
“Hey,” says her teacher, “Did you go tan today?” 
“What?”
“Your face!  It’s so tanned and flushed.  Looks good.”
Uh-oh.  Once, we get back to the car, I sneak a peek in the mirror.  Not quite raccoon-esque, but falling asleep in the sun for even 15 minutes can do a number on your face.  
Note to self: If you’re going to bring it in the morning, make sure you bring the sunscreen for the afternoon car catnap. 

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IN: ON: April 23, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Lunch Special #7

This story was related to me by my mother, but oh how I wish I could have been there.

So the girls are having lunch with my parents, Yia-Yia and Pop-Pop the other afternoon. Usually lunch with the grands involves Chinese food, since the girls are big fans and so is Pop-Pop. The girls are die-hard fans of chicken with broccoli and fried rice.

More often than not, they do a bang up job scarfing it down, occasionally saving me the trouble of doing the dishes by licking their plates clean. Of course, like with everything else, there are days when they have to go against the grain and just get buck like their mom (They come by it honestly).

Evidently, Coever ate all of the chicken off of her plate, most of the rest and kind of shuttled the broocli from one side of the plate to the other. Yia-Yia, with her slick eyes, got hip to the game and reminded Coever that she needed to eat her lunch, post haste, and stop fooling around.

“I don’t wanna!” came the terse reply.

“Coever,” chimes in Morgan, “you can eat your lunch or you can have some air pie!”

My parents look at Morgan while Coever adamantly refuses that offer. Says Pop-Pop, “Morgan, what’s air pie?”

“A big slice of nothin'”, she says, and proceeds to lick her the last of her fried rice off of her plate.

Check please!


P.S. – Thanks, Ginny, for encouraging me to keep it short and sweet!

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IN: ON: April 20, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Take My Picture! Please!

Man, I’ve had this haircut for about 3 months now, and aside from one do-it-myself photo shoot with iPhoto, I’ve got no photographic evidence that anything’s changed.

Hey, remember me? 

Ugh, I need a new wardrobe person. . .

Speaking of which, a few months ago, I bought this fly looking dress from Dillards.  I had been there looking for something to wear to a semi-formal holiday event we had — so this puts us back in early December.  In a matter of minutes, I found just the dress I had in mind, in my size, and on sale.  Signs of the apocalypse, right?  I’m thinking the day couldn’t get any better, when I saw this other little dress on the rack.  And when I put it on, I felt like a million bucks, so I bought that one, too.  Even at full price.

Seriously, the dress didn’t look like much of anything on the hanger, but when I put it on, I literally started jumping up and down in the dressing room.  I mean, really plucking a dress off of the rack, trying it on without having to brace one leg against the door jamb in order to zip it up and having said dress make me feel like I could stop traffic? Things that like never happen to me.

When I came home with the dress, I told DH that he had to, had to, had to see me in this dress.  It was like I had Wonder Woman’s indestructible bracelets on. I felt like “Boom, Boom, Pow!”  I threw on my peep-toed pumps, slid into the dress (and I could still breathe), and was all, “Bring it, snitches!”  Woo, woo! To say that DH was impressed would be an understatement.
Yet, after my little fashion show, the dress went back on the hanger and into the closet, where it has remained, growing smaller and smaller with every passing day.  Don’t you know that your clothes shrink from non-use?  Why else does it take calisthenics and nerves of steel to fit into your summer clothes after a particularly lengthy winter?  Duh.
A few weeks would go by and I would take the dress out of the closet, lay it across my bed and think about how an article of clothing can change your whole mood.  Sometimes, I’d put it on and get a self-esteem boost.  Go ahead and laugh, I know that’s ridiculous.  Don’t forget, though, you’re talking to a girl that used to watch Must-See TV in her wedding gown in order to get the most use out of it. Seriously, sitting on the couch, surrounded by tulle and crinoline, watching NBC, and I was perfectly content (I’d only wear the veil on the week-ends).
But back to the present. Every time I opened the closet, I caught a glimpse of the dress, tags still on it.  And because I save everything, I pulled out the receipt, all set to march the dress back to Dillards where it probably belonged.  DH, however, convinced me to keep it.  I was less successful convincing him to take me out somewhere in it. 
So it sat in the closet, taunting me.  Steadily shrinking.  I thought about putting the dress on and doing the whole self-timer on the camera and snapping a few pics before the dress all but morphed into a hand-towel.  The truth is,  I’ve been pretty slack-tacular on wielding the camera lately.  The weather has been nice and we’ve been out and about doing some pretty cool photo-opportunity inducing things, but I just haven’t been the shutterbug that I used to be.  I think my Shutterfly account was terminated from lack of use.  
My mother-in-law had suggested some time ago that I have the girls Christmas photos re-taken.  Their dresses, while completely stunning, per usual, had been missing the accompanying accessories.  And then, it hit me!  
We’ll get the girls photos done again, but we’ll skip the Picture Peeps and hire a professional photographer.  We’ll make it a family affair.  I’ll get the girls dressed up, have DH put on his tux and I’ll wear the dress! Yay!  I have somewhere to go and I have something to wear — at the same time!  Incredible.  

So, that was two weeks ago and as for the dress. . .well, I’ve hyped it up so much, I hope you aren’t too disappointed.  Click here, but as soon as the photos come back, I’ll definitely share.  Unless of course the dress shrunk again during photo editing.

Hey, it could happen!

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IN: ON: April 2, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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A “WTF?” moment for Friday

I had the pleasure of taking Morgan with me to the Y this morning as she had no school.  I finished my workout and went to collect her from the childwatch.  On the way out to the car, we happened to fall in step with an elderly man who had just finished his workout. 

“Well, hello there!” he says, to us. “What a beautiful little girl you are!”
“Thank you,” says Morgan.
“Yes, what a beautiful little girl.  I’ve got three granddaughters myself. Yep, three little girls.  What a beautiful little girl you have.” He went to expound about the branches on his family tree and peppered his comments with his delightful question.
“So did you have her yourself?” 
What the hayle?!
I pulled up short, almost giving Morgan nursemaid’s elbow in the process and just looked at this guy.  But he didn’t even notice, he just kept on talking. “Of course you did. She’s just beautiful, blah, blah, blah, blah “
I just blinked at him in disbelief. I’m always caught off guard when someone flashes gargantuan amounts of ignorance in my face, and his total lack of couth was winking and blinking like the Vegas strip.  
I’d like to say this was my first exposure to the colossal gall people have, but we all know that’s not true.  And still, I am always unprepared with a response, partly because I’m so surprised that it happens in the first place and partly because, well, I just can’t come up with a scathing enough retort in time.  I’m too busy picking my mouth up off of the floor. 
I will say that of the more ridiculously nervy questions I’ve been asked, this one makes the top three.  The runner’s up include:
1.  Do your daughters have the same father? (seriously, what makes you think it’s okay to ask me this? I don’t know you and even if I did, don’t ask me stupid shiggity like that!)
2.  Do you like the family that you nanny for? (because even though they’re calling me ‘Mommy’, because I’m pushing them around in the stroller at the mall on a Tuesday at 10am, I’m the nanny.)
You know, I used to love to read Mad Magazine, especially Al Jaffee’s sketches called “Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions.”  Time to dust out some back issues.  
Either that or a shiv.

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IN: ON: March 26, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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I Never Said I Was Miss Congeniality

So, DH and I have recently joined a tennis center to add a little variety in our exercise routines and to provide us with an alternative to the dinner & a movie, dinner & a movie, dinner & a movie repetitiveness of date night.
I’m enjoying it quite a bit. In addition to weekly clinics, I’ve been tapped on occasion to join other members on the court for friendly matches. Now, I’ve “played” tennis, or more appropriately, I’ve handled a racquet since 1991 — good grief, that’s 20 plus years. The great thing about tennis is it’s like riding a bike. So long as the mechanics are there, you don’t really lose it.
I got called to play a singles match against another new club member, and while I consider doubles my forte, I was kind of excited. I thought, “Hey, I’ve been doing well at the clinics. My ground strokes are coming back. This’ll be good.”
I headed out there feeling like this. . . .

but by the time I got to the courts, I was feeling more like this. . .

Nerves, man. My nerves were crucial. I had to feel her out to see what I could expect. Everyone talks a little trash to do just that and I’m no exception. It was kind of like that playdate poker, trying to figure out what’s what.
Me: So, have you been playing long?
Her: Oh, I haven’t played in a while. I’m just getting back into it.
Me: Oh, yeah, me, too. I’ve been playing off and on, but mostly off.
Her: Oh, okay. Did you start playing in high school or in college?
Me: I started playing back in ’91, middle school, actually.
Her: Oh, really? I went to college on a tennis scholarship. Tsk, tsk, such a long time ago.
Me: Oh, don’t worry about it. Anita at the front told me that you were in your 40’s (meoowwwww!!) but that you’d have no problems keeping up.
We just served up big plates of BS with a side of put up or shut up, which meant we both were pretty nervous. We rally back and forth for a while to warm up, and I can tell, she’s very good. One of the things I have going for me though, is that I will run for anything. So drop it short, I’m out of the gate and charging towards it. Cross court, down the line, whatever, I’m going for it. Then, I’m gunning for the net because volleying is one of my favorite things.
Another favorite of mine is my cross court backhand. Once I get the rhythm, it’s pretty kick ass. Summer after summer sweltering on public courts, and winter after winter, suffocating on indoor courts, I really honed that nice two handed cross. Add a little topspin on it, and watch out now. Like I said, though, I’ve been playing more off than on, so my consistency is on that shot is for crap.
Anyway, Miss College Scholarship and I start playing. My serve, which is the equivalent of Rocky Dennis in terms of beauty, is actually holding. One thing that has always irked me about tennis is that no matter how many points you win in a game, even if you come back from love and have about 2 dozen deuce points, if you lose the game, you lose the game. She’s up 3 to 1 in the first set, which is respectable. I got a game, I could probably eke out a few more.
My backhand is coming around and my forehand doesn’t want to be left out. She serves, nice little spinner in the middle of the box that jumps to the backhand side on the bounce. I get my racquet on it just enough to send it squealing to the forehand corner just between the inner alley line and the baseline.
Ol‘ girl, once she figures it out, starts digging to the corner, racquet rolling back and then. . .
She’s airborne.
It was the longest seven seconds of my life.
She reached.
She swung, and the momentum kept her going a few feet until she landed on her left knee and right forearm before skidding to a stop.
Oh. My. Sweet. Mother. Of. Pearl
The pro on the other court, another pro who had been watching from the doorway, and I swarmed over to her where I think her pride was throbbing more than her knee and arm combined.
Thankfully, nothing was broken more than her ego, and after a short break, we were back on the court. I guess I was feeling uber remorseful because I started just lobbing soft balls to her, which she proceed to ram back to me. I mean, she was hobbling from side to side — I didn’t want to be a total bee-yotch and keep dropping ’em short, knowing that she wouldn’t even run for it. It’s called sportsmanship, people.
Despite my generosity, she must have been nursing a vendetta as well as some sore limbs, because she promptly took the remaining games of that set and all but one game of the next. Can you say, “playing possum?”
We finished up the remaining court time just rallying back and forth, which turned out to be a lot more fun once we removed the pressure of winning. Now that all the BS has been put to rest, her pride has recovered, and my own embarrassment has abated, future matches will probably be more enjoyable.
And she tries to floss with some of those scholarship moves? Well let’s just say, even sportsmanship can take a day off.
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IN: ON: March 17, 2010 TAGS: BY: Hilary
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You’re Killin’ Me, Smalls. . .

You’d think by now I’d have learned my lesson by now. You’d think that because I’m the adult, I’m making the decisions. And yet once again, here we are, and all I can do is shake my head.
Foolishly, I sometimes ask the girls what they’d like for lunch, often giving them a choice between different sandwich choices or chicken nuggets vs. hot dogs. Today, though, I just couldn’t even wrap my mind around all the choice left overs in the fridge and asked them flat out, “What do you want for lunch?”

Morgan, just as sweet as you please, asked for tuna fish and chips. Done and done. Coever asked for grilled cheese. What? Whose child is this? Certainly not mine. We don’t eat grilled cheese in this house. Let me re-phrase, I don’t eat grilled cheese, and if the numero uno, executive chef ain’t eatin’ it, it ain’t gettin’ made. But of course, Coever looked at me with those Bambi eyes and saw this. . .

I got busy making grilled cheese.
For someone who doesn’t eat it, I sure put a lot of thought and love into this thing. I toasted the Oat Nut bread, which, by the by, if you haven’t had the Oat Nut bread, do yourself a favor and get it. It’s beyond good. It’s like a hug in your mouth. But I digress.
I toasted the bread, I spread it with butter — I think I read that’s what you do when you make grilled cheese. I shaved — yes, you read correctly, I shaved off several layers of cheddar cheese from this hunk o’ cheddar we had in the fridge. I laid the thinly sliced cheese over the buttery- oat-nutty-bready goodness and threw another layer of bread on top. I wrapped that mamma jamma up in some foil, fired up the iron and commenced to press it to death.
Coever wove in between and around my legs, chanting, “Is that my grilled cheese, Mom? Is that my grilled cheese?” I half expected her to break out in song and dance like Bill Cosby’s kids when they had chocolate cake for breakfast.
I unwrapped the sandwich, placing it on her plate with some orange slices, and some chips. By now, the girls were in the living room, looking at library books, so I called them to the table. They seated themselves just as I placed their plates in front of them.
“Thanks, Mommy,” said Morgan, taking a monstrous bite of her tuna fish. Mmmm, oat nut bread.
I go back to the kitchen to fetch (yes, I’m from the Mo-tea-suh tribe) the girls’ drinks, when I hear Coever ask, “What dis, Mom?” She’s picking up her sandwich between two fingers, “Is dis my grilled cheese?”

“Yes, Coever,” I begin, seeing that she’s somehow managed to shove the orange slices and the chips down her throat. “That’s the sandwich you asked for.” In my head, I’m thinking, “Oh no. She better not even think about it.”

“I don’t like grilled cheese,” she wrinkles up her nose and lets the sandwich fall back onto the plate.
Of course. . .
Hi, my name is Hilary with one “l” and I’ve been duped by my two year old.
Again.

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IN: ON: March 9, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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