First of all, I am now writing this blog with severe trepidation. Turns out it is somehow connected to Google plus, which it turns out my 12 year old nephew is cruising around on. My sister apparently doesn't want him on Facebook, so I guess Google plus is like the gateway drug. The thing is, I love my nephew. I held him just days after he was born and he was the first baby I ever really loved. He stole my heart with those tiny hands and big fat cheeks... But he's 12, and 12 year old boys...well, they have cooties. Not to mention the fact that no one who is 12 should be reading a blog with the word "cunt" in it. I am sure my nephew will figure out what a nutcase I am eventually (unless of course he already has,) but I don't want to use words that there is no way a 12 year old boy should be reading. I also don't want to stifle myself. So, I put on some privacy settings, and we will see how it goes. Patrick, if you are reading this, go over to Amazon and find something cool. I'll send you a gift card. Or better yet, turn off your laptop and read a book. Finish your homework! And stop antagonizing your brother!
So, this morning started out like any other. The five year old was dressed, brushed, and packed with his finished homework. The nine year old was laying on her floor half naked whining about what to wear, what to eat, and why to brush. Lord knows where her backpack was or if anything was actually completed inside. It's kinda like one of those obstacle course runs that are so popular now. It's the Get-the-kids-to-school-on-time-without-Children's-Services-being-notified 5k. It's way better than those mud runs or paint runs though, because at the end, you may be a bit dirty and winded, but your kids have been turned over to our good intentioned horribly implemented department of education, ie, they are NOT in the car, and you can finally put in the new Five Finger Death Punch cd and wheel that volume button hard to the right!
Anyway, my husband and I drop the kids off at school, I have my mandatory parent chat about how much homework there is and how yesterday's field trip (that I totally forgot about) went, etc, etc, and I drop off my husband at the subway to get to work. It's about 6 blocks away from the school, so of course it takes 15 minutes to get there, and it is in one of the absolute worst neighborhoods to drive in in Brooklyn. Don't get me wrong, driving anywhere in Brooklyn sucks. It's like one of those racing game videos where you try not to hit the animals, but in Brooklyn, you try not to hit the van parked in one lane, the pedestrian illegally crossing in the other lane and the livery car making an illegal u- turn while simultaneously running a red light. I swear to God. Once I saw this car break so many laws at once I was dumbstruck. It like ran a red light to make an illegal left turn from the far right lane and almost clipped a pedestrian who was actually IN the crosswalk (something I had previously put in the same category as a unicorn or a leprechaun,) to go the wrong way down a one way street. And I have NEVER seen any car pulled over for a moving violation in the 10 years I have lived here. But I digress...
In the neighborhood we drive through every morning, people will drive on the sidewalk to pass you if you are in their way (turning, not going 90 mph...) and the second the light changes, everyone slams on their horn. Totally annoying, and try as I may to just get used to it, even Five Finger on 11 can't drown it out. What I did was adopt a tradition my Dad started. He carried a black and white checkered racing flag in the car so when people sped by him like their hair was on fire, he would wave it out the window. It kinda helps, but sometimes it's like putting a band aid on shark bite. This morning was one of those times. My husband was making a left turn, so he was (shock) waiting for the intersection to clear, and this guy behind us just starts blasting his horn. This guy is so mad that he has to wait for us to turn, that he's honking and honking, and I can't see his face, but I can only imagine it beet red. So my husband of course is like, "Piss off!" And slowly creeps closer to the intersection. Of course the guy behind us is livid now. I mean what if they give the fresh donor liver to someone else? Or worse yet, he's late for his brain transplant?? Or Starbucks runs out of Pumpkin Spice syrup??? The horror of it all! I of course am fishing for my checkered flag which I find and wave out the window. Speed racer finally has enough room to go around us as he genteelly yells, "Fuck you!" out the window, to which I reply, "Moron!" and then it comes, slicing through the air on a 90 mph headwind, "CUNT!!" I look at my husband. "He just called me a cunt! Can you believe it? What an asshole!" "Well, yeah, obviously," he replies. And that's when this cool thing hits me. It's this video I saw on Upworthy. A very cool website for inspirational and alternative thinking ideas. And this video was a young girl explaining why cunt is not an insult. I don't know If you saw this video, but you should check it out. This girl's basic point is that a cunt is a vagina, and a vagina is a beautiful thing that provides life and pleasure to the human race, so how can it be insulting to be called something so wonderful? And she's right. Totally. There is nothing wrong or bad about a vagina, but there are waaaaaaayyyy good things about it, and that's not even taking into consideration the whiny little tadpoles I just turned over to the dept of ed. At least from the girl in the video's perspective, and mine as well, vaginas rock! So you wanna call me a cunt? Bring it on baby!
Of course I am having this revelation as we are half way down the block and Captain Angry is honking his way through the McDonalds drive thru, but I tell my husband, "Man, I should have yelled out 'Thank You!' or 'What's wrong with you that you don't like vaginas?" My helpful husband, ever supportive of me, suggests that I should go with "Thank you!" Since I'm not looking at a lot of chat time. Good point, and dually noted.
So, I drop my husband at the train and look at the clock. It is 8:53am, and I have already been called a cunt. I decide it is going to be a great day, and I can't wait for the next time.
Peace, love, and vaginas!
Marielle
Check it out http://www.upworthy.com/so-youre-telling-me-you-dont-like-the-way-you-think-i-have-sex-cause-thats-all-im-hearing-2?g=2
Friday, November 8, 2013
Friday, October 25, 2013
Gym Enlightenment
I have to admit, I had eye on them for months. The latest in workout pants technology! Testimonial after testimonial, "I lost 4" off my hips in 2 weeks!" "I went down 2 dress sizes just wearing these pants around the house!" And so on. I admit, I am a sucker for most things advertised. I am the person they put all that stupid stuff on the store counter for, and I usually buy more crap winding through the product stocked line at Marshall's than I came into the line with. But state of the art weight dropping off workout pants??? I am so in! That is until I went to the website and saw the price: $100! Wtf? I mean I guess it's cheaper than liposuction, but waaaaay more than the sale rack at TJ Maxx! Enter, my lord an savior, the mighty GROUPON! Fifty dollars for one hundred dollars worth of merchandise from the best-invention-in-history workout pants! Half price! Problem solved!
As I spend my days making excuses to drive by my house and check the mail for my new pants, I envision my tiny waist and slim legs finally fitting into anything made by Gwen Stefani. My miracle pants will be here to change my life, and one day, they are! I rip open the package with a shriek and dance around the house basking in the glory of my life changing garment I never thought I could afford! And just think, I have personal training in 2 days! Welcome to my new life!
And then, I am in the locker room changing for my training. My new pants are kinda thick and tight, obviously the perfect texture to unleash my fat! I peel into them, and into the gym I go.
Boxing was fine. Good cardio, no real difference. Weight lifting was even better. The thicker pants made it easier to slide the weight bar down my thighs. Good training, now an hour on the eliptical, and it's off to get the kids. And that's when it happens... Holy crap! These pants are so heavy and tight, each step starts to turn into a marathon. What, it's only 20 minutes? I swear I've been on this thing for at least 45! And the sweat... My shirt is soaked through. My face is dripping. My ponytail meandered into the glue factory. Seriously, I am walking through the Mohave starting to hallucinate about seven virgins holding out iced shots of Patron.
Fifteen minutes left and I'm doing my best to ignore the fact that I feel like I just stepped out of a hot tub in my clothes. Ten minutes, five minutes, two minutes, two minutes and 50 seconds, two minutes and 45 seconds, one minute, one minute and 28 seconds, 40 seconds, and finally I am done. It takes me a few minutes for my heat stroked brain to figure out how to get off the machine, and I almost fall down two flights of stairs to the locker room. I am panting. I have to sit down. No, I have to get these fucking pants off. I take off my shoes and literally have to peel these nuclear pants from my body. My legs are soaked, my underwear is soaked, but all I care about is the smooth, cold tile of the locker ledge. Germ laden as it may be, damn, it feels amazing on my heat stroked body.
Eventually I get dressed and squeeze my soaking clothes into my gym bag. Into the laundry everything goes the minute I get home. But how do I wash these pants? Hand wash in cold water? I guess even Satan has a sense of humor.
Will I wear them again? Absolutely! Maybe not every workout, but I've always been a glutton for punishment. Especially when I will lose 4" off my hips in two weeks!
Now where is that ice cold Patron?
Peace!
Marielle
As I spend my days making excuses to drive by my house and check the mail for my new pants, I envision my tiny waist and slim legs finally fitting into anything made by Gwen Stefani. My miracle pants will be here to change my life, and one day, they are! I rip open the package with a shriek and dance around the house basking in the glory of my life changing garment I never thought I could afford! And just think, I have personal training in 2 days! Welcome to my new life!
And then, I am in the locker room changing for my training. My new pants are kinda thick and tight, obviously the perfect texture to unleash my fat! I peel into them, and into the gym I go.
Boxing was fine. Good cardio, no real difference. Weight lifting was even better. The thicker pants made it easier to slide the weight bar down my thighs. Good training, now an hour on the eliptical, and it's off to get the kids. And that's when it happens... Holy crap! These pants are so heavy and tight, each step starts to turn into a marathon. What, it's only 20 minutes? I swear I've been on this thing for at least 45! And the sweat... My shirt is soaked through. My face is dripping. My ponytail meandered into the glue factory. Seriously, I am walking through the Mohave starting to hallucinate about seven virgins holding out iced shots of Patron.
Fifteen minutes left and I'm doing my best to ignore the fact that I feel like I just stepped out of a hot tub in my clothes. Ten minutes, five minutes, two minutes, two minutes and 50 seconds, two minutes and 45 seconds, one minute, one minute and 28 seconds, 40 seconds, and finally I am done. It takes me a few minutes for my heat stroked brain to figure out how to get off the machine, and I almost fall down two flights of stairs to the locker room. I am panting. I have to sit down. No, I have to get these fucking pants off. I take off my shoes and literally have to peel these nuclear pants from my body. My legs are soaked, my underwear is soaked, but all I care about is the smooth, cold tile of the locker ledge. Germ laden as it may be, damn, it feels amazing on my heat stroked body.
Eventually I get dressed and squeeze my soaking clothes into my gym bag. Into the laundry everything goes the minute I get home. But how do I wash these pants? Hand wash in cold water? I guess even Satan has a sense of humor.
Will I wear them again? Absolutely! Maybe not every workout, but I've always been a glutton for punishment. Especially when I will lose 4" off my hips in two weeks!
Now where is that ice cold Patron?
Peace!
Marielle
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Studded Jacket Parenting
So, I realize I started this blog like last year or something and haven't added anything new, so today, as I was watching my 4 year old do his 9 pages of homework and first book summary at the dining room table while by 9 year old read the cereal box, it occurred to me that I should be more current. I write so much stuff on facebook, I don't really do the blog thing. So, I have decided to make a concerted effort to blog first, facebook later. We will see how that goes. Plus I have no following, so I guess this is just a trial thing.
At the moment, my schedule is busy. Of the every-single-day activities, 2 are for me. That's ok though. At first I have to admit I was not happy about leaving the music business to be a full time mom, but now (with the right meds, my fave being klonipin!) I am digging it! It is not everyone who gets to watch their kids grow up. Watch their eyes light up kicking the heavy bag in karate for the first time (and second time, and third time..., and singing along with Cheap Trick and Paramore in the car at the top of their lungs. I realize I am still me, and my kids are finally able to understand that. My Dad used to carry a checkered flag in his car so he could wave it out the window when people flew by him. I am carrying on the tradition, and my flag gets way more use in Brooklyn than Chicago. In the beginning I explained it to my children, and as they watched me in action once, my 9 year old said, "Mom, do you know you are crazy?" To which I replied, "Yeah, and it's ok. Makes life interesting don't you think? Plus it saves me from saying a lot of bad words your father doesn't want me to say around you. I say it's win-win, don't you?" "I guess so," she replied smugly, "but you're still crazy." I can live with that. I want them to know who I am in addition to the mom nagging about homework and yelling at her to clean her room.
I also found out something new about myself. I enrolled her in an after school math enrichment program (a fancy term for saying she sucks in math and is going to flunk the state tests without tutoring and my 20 year old babysitter, google, and I have no idea how to do this new fucking math,) and when I met with the director while wearing my sweatpants and studded jacket, I actually had a lot of important things to say. I have goals for her, and I am really trying to help her achieve them.. I want her to feel confident and good about herself. I want her to feel smart and capable. I have her in therapy and dance, and I think the dance is working better. I tried ADD medicines (which didn't work,) and plan on trying some OT to ease her fear of writing. I honestly think she doesn't really know how to hold the pencil properly. I remember my kindergarten teacher (Mrs. Gruel, a name which sounds like she eats children inside a rather than candy house rather than teaches them,) spending entire classes showing us how to hold a pencil properly and apply the right pressure. And she went from table to table correcting and helping us individually. Now, they just say, "Here is an F. Trace it and write 220 of them." No lie. My kindergartner has to write 220 letters along with 6 other worksheets at least 3 times a week! And the director of the fancy we-will-enrich-your-child-and-make-them-a-genius really was impressed with what I had to say, spiked jacked, sweatpants, tattoos, and all.
In any case, I am finally embracing this motherhood thing. My husband is doing phenomenal in the music business, and I am truly not jealous. I am not doing so bad in the Mom business.
Anyway, I have to get dressed for another getting-manis and pedis-birthday party. And I am excited because my nails actually look like crap. This mom thing, it's harder than scheduling Metallica songs to play in sync with the 4th of July fireworks display, but I'm digging it!
xx
Marielle
At the moment, my schedule is busy. Of the every-single-day activities, 2 are for me. That's ok though. At first I have to admit I was not happy about leaving the music business to be a full time mom, but now (with the right meds, my fave being klonipin!) I am digging it! It is not everyone who gets to watch their kids grow up. Watch their eyes light up kicking the heavy bag in karate for the first time (and second time, and third time..., and singing along with Cheap Trick and Paramore in the car at the top of their lungs. I realize I am still me, and my kids are finally able to understand that. My Dad used to carry a checkered flag in his car so he could wave it out the window when people flew by him. I am carrying on the tradition, and my flag gets way more use in Brooklyn than Chicago. In the beginning I explained it to my children, and as they watched me in action once, my 9 year old said, "Mom, do you know you are crazy?" To which I replied, "Yeah, and it's ok. Makes life interesting don't you think? Plus it saves me from saying a lot of bad words your father doesn't want me to say around you. I say it's win-win, don't you?" "I guess so," she replied smugly, "but you're still crazy." I can live with that. I want them to know who I am in addition to the mom nagging about homework and yelling at her to clean her room.
I also found out something new about myself. I enrolled her in an after school math enrichment program (a fancy term for saying she sucks in math and is going to flunk the state tests without tutoring and my 20 year old babysitter, google, and I have no idea how to do this new fucking math,) and when I met with the director while wearing my sweatpants and studded jacket, I actually had a lot of important things to say. I have goals for her, and I am really trying to help her achieve them.. I want her to feel confident and good about herself. I want her to feel smart and capable. I have her in therapy and dance, and I think the dance is working better. I tried ADD medicines (which didn't work,) and plan on trying some OT to ease her fear of writing. I honestly think she doesn't really know how to hold the pencil properly. I remember my kindergarten teacher (Mrs. Gruel, a name which sounds like she eats children inside a rather than candy house rather than teaches them,) spending entire classes showing us how to hold a pencil properly and apply the right pressure. And she went from table to table correcting and helping us individually. Now, they just say, "Here is an F. Trace it and write 220 of them." No lie. My kindergartner has to write 220 letters along with 6 other worksheets at least 3 times a week! And the director of the fancy we-will-enrich-your-child-and-make-them-a-genius really was impressed with what I had to say, spiked jacked, sweatpants, tattoos, and all.
In any case, I am finally embracing this motherhood thing. My husband is doing phenomenal in the music business, and I am truly not jealous. I am not doing so bad in the Mom business.
Anyway, I have to get dressed for another getting-manis and pedis-birthday party. And I am excited because my nails actually look like crap. This mom thing, it's harder than scheduling Metallica songs to play in sync with the 4th of July fireworks display, but I'm digging it!
xx
Marielle
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Boxing Lessons
Ever since I bought the Groupon ("Honey, I have to go to this sushi place, get my hair lasered and spend the day in a Russian Banya on Coney Island Avenue by next Tuesday!) I have been really looking forward to boxing lessons! I mean c'mon, 4 private lessons! How stupid can I look? AND I get to wear boxing gloves so the stupidity factor is already elevated to way cool! So, the lesson is at noon, and in my infinite wisdom I decide to warm up with 2 hours at the gym: an hour on the eliptical, some weights, 100 situps... in retrospect, not one of my best plans (of course far from one of my worst plans. Can you say "drinking two bottles of wine and showing up late and rowdy to my front row seats at Rent on Broadway?" Yeah, well.... it sucked anyway until we were asked to leave after 15 minutes!)
Anyway, boxing gym, cool. Anthony who is laid back and knows how to throw a punch, cool. Getting my hands wrapped, wearing boxing gloves and punching a 200 lb bag, way cool. Thirty minutes of warm up exercises broken down into intervals of 3 and a half minutes each, sucks ass. And one of the worst parts, you have to look in the mirror the whole time! Definitely not one of my strong suits. After all, nothing says "kick ass" like watching your breasts bounce around in the supposedly best sports bra available while sweat is pouring down your face. And there is no kinda happiness in big Anthony watching you throw a punch and that loose ball of fat under your arm springs forth as if it could assist in some way, like, "Hey! Watch out! If I punch hard enough this underarm granny fat it going to fly off and smack you in the face and you will be grossed out for life!"
All in all, I made it through my first lesson. And even with Anthony saying such inspirational things like, "Well you're not really going to learn that much in 4 lessons so you really have to pay attention to the technique." That was yesterday, and everything hurts! And I have to buy a garment bag to wash my wraps. My bras, I just throw that in with my regular clothes, but not my boxing wraps! I am definitely in for at least these 3 more lessons. Pain equals strength, right? And I am certainly going to get a lot of use out of the boxing gloves, which I very well could be wearing all day today as diva sits at the table and whines about her 3rd grade homework. Oh, and I just got a report/tattle that JBear is throwing legos at the tv. Guess it's time to wrap my hands.
Anyway, boxing gym, cool. Anthony who is laid back and knows how to throw a punch, cool. Getting my hands wrapped, wearing boxing gloves and punching a 200 lb bag, way cool. Thirty minutes of warm up exercises broken down into intervals of 3 and a half minutes each, sucks ass. And one of the worst parts, you have to look in the mirror the whole time! Definitely not one of my strong suits. After all, nothing says "kick ass" like watching your breasts bounce around in the supposedly best sports bra available while sweat is pouring down your face. And there is no kinda happiness in big Anthony watching you throw a punch and that loose ball of fat under your arm springs forth as if it could assist in some way, like, "Hey! Watch out! If I punch hard enough this underarm granny fat it going to fly off and smack you in the face and you will be grossed out for life!"
All in all, I made it through my first lesson. And even with Anthony saying such inspirational things like, "Well you're not really going to learn that much in 4 lessons so you really have to pay attention to the technique." That was yesterday, and everything hurts! And I have to buy a garment bag to wash my wraps. My bras, I just throw that in with my regular clothes, but not my boxing wraps! I am definitely in for at least these 3 more lessons. Pain equals strength, right? And I am certainly going to get a lot of use out of the boxing gloves, which I very well could be wearing all day today as diva sits at the table and whines about her 3rd grade homework. Oh, and I just got a report/tattle that JBear is throwing legos at the tv. Guess it's time to wrap my hands.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Introduction
So here I am. A 44 year old mom of two kids, living hundreds of miles away from where I grew up in the Chicago suburbs. When looked at in big picture format, life is good. My husband has an awesome job. I stay home with the kids who will both be in school full time next month, and we live across the street from the beach. The thing is, I don't know if it's the fact that I am living somewhere different than where I grew up, or that it is 30 years after I grew up, but it just seems like so much weird stuff is constantly happening. I figured I would start a blog just so I could get it out and see if it is actually me who is the crazy one, or everybody else. Of course your natural assumption would be, "Duh! Obviously it is you!" But I am not the one sitting on the N train eating corn on the cob at 9am on a Sunday. And I am not the one on the eliptical at the gym holding a sequence wristlet which reflects light directly into the eyes of the person next to her (that being me) on every right step. And I am not the Brazilian guy from Con Ed who spends so much time in my house talking about heavy metal and showing me his photography website that he forgets to read the meter... So, maybe it's not me... or is it?
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