Oink

Mass hysteria or desperate times, too much mercury or no mercury, nasal spray or arm injection, presidential emergency of epidemic proportion?......

Whatev.

My little men have now officially been vaccinated for the press event known as "Swine Flu" and I, for one, am immensely relieved about it. Let all those other snot-nosed kids at their school cough and sneeze and wipe their germ-ridden (albeit adorable) little hands right on my two little sweetie pies.

We, for two, will not be getting that disease this year.

But Weight Just a Minute

I went to a beautiful wedding the last weekend in May. One of my own bridesmaids (who I'm pretty bummed to have nearly lost touch with) was getting married and I was really looking forward to her wedding. I would have liked to have lost weight for it (she went to Elon and I swear I have never met a woman who went to Elon who wasn't beautiful and/or so thin that I would likely be able to eat her for lunch...in a small bite) but I didn't. So, since I hadn't been to a wedding since last fall (you know you're getting old when...) I just decided to choose from one of last year's "fat dresses".

Tried them on for the first time two days before the big event. And they were too small. Sh*t.

Bought a tent (oops, I mean, a dress) the next day, wore it to the wedding and sadly realized as I looked around that I might just be the heaviest woman in the place. Or, at least close to it. More Chardonnay, please.

Enough. On June 1, I joined Weight Watchers, which was a successful program for me before my own wedding and I knew I was finally in the right mind set (shame is a powerful motivator) to start it up again.

And, now, a little more than four months later, I'm well on my way to becoming the next Valerie Bertinelli (without the hankering for tattooed rock stars). I've lost 23 pounds and I'm in the groove. But, the annoying thing is that I can still wear my clothes from 23 pounds ago. I mean, they certainly look a little better on me but you'd think I'd have dropped a few sizes wouldn't you? So, I'm trying to look at 23 pounds in terms of other things. Things that actually mean something to me in my stay-at-home Mom-ness.

For example, I lost the equivalent of:

roughly 23 bags of coffee beans

my Keurig one-cup coffee machine when half filled with water

4 Directv DVR/HD cable boxes

2 XL HE Gain Laundry Detergent bottles

47 Thomas The Tank Engine DVDs

9 bottles of Chardonnay

my 2 year old son's entire body weight

And, that all makes me feel a little better about the fact that I'm not entitled to a new wardrobe...well, at least not yet.

A Little "Peabody Ink"

Let me begin with the fact that I've always wanted a tattoo. But, I didn't want to be foolish about it and go get something like a butterfly or a ladybug or a Patriots logo or something that I'd be bound to not care at all about twenty years down the road. And then I'd be stuck with it.

So, now that I'm a proud Mommy of two (and there will never be three) beautiful children, I know that there is something in my life I'll love forever and ever. Unequivocally. No matter what.

I've been mulling the idea of two small blue hearts, one with a W and one with a J (my boys first initials), for a while now. On my hip / bikini line so that no one I don't care to show it to would ever know it was there. I've mentioned it to my husband and to friends but I'm pretty sure no one actually really thought I'd do it.

Well...I did it.

Made an appointment yesterday at a place called (gulp) Drastic Tattoo out near the Northshore Mall (on a friends recommendation).

Ring. Ring.

"Drastic Tattoo, this is Diamond."

Diamond? (Deep breath)

Me: Ummm, hi. I think I want a tattoo tomorrow morning, do I need an appt?

Diamond: Sure, we open at 11 am.

Me: Oh. Hmm. Well, how long will it take?

Diamond: Tell me about the kind of tattoo you want.

So I explain it. Verbose-ly.

"Well, I've always thought I wanted a tattoo and never knew what to get and now I have two boys and I think I just want two little hearts colored in and each with the letter of their first name. I'm really nervous about it. I haven't even told my husband I'm doing it. Anyway, I have to pick them up at school at 12:30 so if it's going to take a long time, maybe I'll just try to do it another day and..."

Diamond: I can open at 10 for you if that helps.

Me: Oh. You can? Well, that's so nice of you.

I shouldn't have been surprised that they open at 11, anyway. I mean tattoo places probably aren't big stops for women coming in right after pre-school drop-off. And, hell, they're probably staying open until, like 4 am or some hour I haven't seen in...well, maybe forever.

Diamond: I'll draw something up for you. See you at 10.

Me: ok

So, last night my dear husband asks me what I've got going on today and why I didn't call my cousin back who I adore and who is in the area for the week and I was probably going to see on Thursday (today). I said I didn't have anything going on and was actually probably not going to see her after all. Not sure why I didn't come out and tell him about the appointment then. I guess I didn't want to be talked out of it or offered opinions or whatever. Not to discredit his input which I value. This just sort of had to be something I was doing because I wanted to do it. For me.

Got up this morning and dropped the guys at school. Walked into their wonderful little school un-showered, in jeans and a fleece pullover. Ran into plenty of parents I should probably care about making a good impression on. But, nope. Went dirty. Came home after drop off, before my 10 am tattoo appointment and for some absurd reason I showered, put on nice black pants, a nice sweater, heeled black boots and...no joke....mascara. What in the world??? What message was I trying to send to the tattoo place? "Oh, in case you didn't know already by my psycho-babble on the phone, or my black Jeep Grand Cherokee with car seats in the back or the fact that I'm walking in with my Starbucks pumpkin spice latte in hand....just to make it extra clear to you...I'm gonna dress up for my tattoo appointment. Just so you know for sure that I'm not the kind of person who usually gets tattoos. " I swear, I'm half insane most of the time. They probably opened early for me so I wouldn't scare off the rest of their clientele.

Anyway, Diamond is there when I arrive at 9:47. The place smells so badly of patchouli I can hardly breathe. But, it's clean and bright and I think it'll all be ok. Diamond's done a sketch for me and sure enough it's two hearts with a W and a J. But they're all swirley fancy cursive Miami-Ink letters with curly-q tails and my two hearts have little twinkly star-burst things coming off them and they're all askew and really BIG. And, I'm such a goddamn mouse who is afraid to hurt people's feelings that it took all I had in me not to say "looks GREAT" and just go ahead and let the man put his insane artwork right on my body. Forever.

But, I muster up the courage and I edit. And he fixes. And it all looks good to go.

And now I'm on the table and definitely freaking out but determined. All set. I can do it.

Then right before the first outline begins, his freakin' boss arrives and strolls right into the room, takes one look at me and says with a grin "This your first tattoo?" Genius. Oh, and he has tattoos ev-er-y-where. Even on his entire bald head. And the top of his hands. And he's completely making me panic.

"Yes, my first tattoo."

"Ah. Don't be nervous. Just think about how this felt!" (pointing at his head)

I think I might throw up.

He continues. Pulls up a chair nearby. "Here, I'll just tell you about my crazy teenage daughter this morning. Sh*t man, it was f*ckin' ridiculous. Just listen to this and it'll take your mind off the needles."

Oh, please go away. Please.

But, I hear all about it and I am such an insane pollyanna, niceness nerd that I even manage to contribute a "no way" and a "oh no" and a "really?" now and then. The story takes roughly 15 minutes. The tattoo takes 19 minutes 37 seconds. Roughly.

And it's over.

I tried calling my husband on the way home and I'm pretty sure he was busy and sent my call to voicemail so I haven't even told him yet (although he'll know before I post this of course.)

So, what do you think?

Me, 9 Men & Fantasy

Get your minds out of the gutters, people. My mother reads this blog. The title is actually not referring to some seedy desire to please numerous men. In fact, it relates to my seedy desire to trounce numerous men...repeatedly, if possible. In Fantasy Football.

You see, I'm commissioner of a Fantasy Football league called First n Ten XI. "XI" as in 11 years of the league. And, I'll bet, based on that fact, most of you reading this now probably think you can presume a few things about me. And eleven years ago, I'll bet a few of your presumptions may even have been true. But three jobs, two children, four out-of-state moves later and it's sort of laughable.

As example, you probably thought "I'll bet she's a real sports fan or at least really knows her stuff when it comes to football."

1998 -- Living by myself in a Back Bay studio apartment. Knew the Pats by name, number and position. Somewhat knew football overall.

2009 -- Living in suburbia with my husband, dog and two spawn. Know the lead content of various jungle gym equipment and every word to the theme song to "Backyardigans". Somewhat know my beloved Pats (the starters, at least). Can maybe confidently place five QBs with their appropriate team but certainly no more than eight. Puh-thetic.

But, on we play.

We tried a couple times to involve other women. They were terrible. All of them. They were generally annoying chatty "post"-ers who didn't change out players during "bye" weeks. My feeling was that they sort of gave female sports fans a bad name trying to participate and being so lame. They probably wore pink Red Sox hats, too. So, they were out. Which makes me sound like a really hard core commissioner which is freakin' ridiculous because I am such a girl as commissioner I don't know how these guys put up with me sometimes.

While I insist that players pay attention to their teams (I mean, come on), I'm also all about league harmony. No joke. A harmonious fantasy football league? Please, woman. But, it's true. One of my husband's friends who played in the league a few years was unceremoniously tossed last year basically for talking back too much. Being too argumentative and mean. Creating discord. Complaining about my oh-so-diplomatic (I ask for votes...really, I do) league settings. If I could have given him a time-out and sent him to his room, I would have done it, I swear. Hell hath no fury like a female commissioner scorned.

The thing about fantasy football though is that there's really not a whole lot one has to know to be a good team manager and win the whole damn thing. This really annoys my husband who actually does know more than a little about these players so it makes him crazy that someone like me can just get lucky and win a game because I accidentally drafted Steve Smith instead of Stephen Smith (or was it the other way around?). Anyway, things like that.

My team name is the Fat Cats because when I started the league I had a big fat rescue-league cat named Ned. And that's been my name for 11 years. I highly doubt there are a lot of other commissioners out there naming their team after a tubby kitty.

So, anyway, go Fat Cats.

Go Pats.

Gotta love a little harmless fantasy.

And, No, I Still Haven't Gotten Over It

Family is a funny thing. Particularly the in-law side of the family. It's so odd to think that you can fall in love with someone and that, usually, there's a whole slew of other people that just come along with the package. And then you're expected to love (or at least act like you love), feed, house, welcome, call, write and invite them to participate in every meaningful event that takes place in your life until the day that you, or they, no longer walk the earth. Or, until you get divorced but that's another story.

I got lucky, though, and I truly married into a great family. The immediate family of my husband (his father, mother and younger brother) are really good people. I truly love them like my own family. When my father in law died unexpectedly three years ago it was, of course, horrible for my husband. But, I felt as though I lost a father, as well. He was kind, smart and funny and I miss him every day. It breaks my heart that my children won't remember "Grampy."

My mother in law is also a gift. She is generous of her time, her love and her extremely good nature (she is also quite generous with her Cabernet). She's an incredible grandmother to my boys and she would be at my door at the drop of a hat if I needed her to help in any way at all. And she would also graciously step away if I ever asked her to let me be on my own. She is, like me, an only child and she understand the need I feel on occasion to just be. left. alone. She really "gets" me and I think we're similar beings in many ways and I think much of that stems from both being only children. And, we both loved being only children. Which brings me to my acquired-by-marriage sibling -- the brother in law. If my mother in law is my yin, he is my yang.

Holy cow. Get a few glasses of wine in the two of us and you never know what might happen next. We are both highly competitive, we both pretty much always think we're right, and we differ on political views, sports fanaticism and sometimes even...gulp....child-rearing. If there's a highly-charged topic we'll tackle it after a few and it rarely ends well. But the thing is, he's smart. And he's pig-headed. And he loves my boys. And he really can make me laugh. And we have these ugly discussions that can contain a bad word or two (or twenty) and then the best part is...it's over. I love that. As an only child I really never had anyone who went toe to toe with me like he does. He goes right ahead and tells me I'm full of crap and, sometimes, he's right. (Often, he's not -- haha -- and he'll hate that I said that.)

He's a marathon runner, a bachelor and a lawyer (not necessarily in that order). Someday, he'll be a fabulous father. Oh, and for a while last year he was somewhat seriously dating a gorgeous young (and I do mean young) creature who worked as a manager for...wait for it....Victoria's Secret. Good god. Seriously??

Which leads me to my all time favorite brother-in-law conversation.

Me to B-i-L: I can't believe she works at Victoria's Secret.

My husband, unable to resist: So, does she actually wear the stuff?

B-i-L (maybe a little smug): Yup

Me: Oh, gag. And, she's how old?

B-i-L: 23

Me (smart ass): I mean, wow. Cool. Can't wait to meet her. I'll have so much in common with a woman who's the "23 year old Victoria's Secret type".

Pause.

B-i-L: Yeah, you're more like the 40 year old LL Bean type.

And it was just so quick and mean and funny. God love him. And, most of the time, I love him too. Except, maybe, when we're playing cards and then I hate him again. But only until I win.

Everything's A-O-K, Mr. President.

My own political views aside (and my husband describes me as annoyingly "apolitical"), I wonder why I was so shocked last night to actually see a main stream comedian making fun of the Obamas. What makes this president somehow immune to the late-night fodder subjected to all his predecessors? And, I'm not saying Obama deserves or doesn't deserve some ribbing but isn't it amazing that we've gone this long into his presidency without seeing this sort of stuff anywhere off FOX News ??

Michelle vs. Big Bird --- Click for Video Clip

Stop This Ride, I'm Ready to Get Off...

This is not going to be my usual chirpy, happy post. Those of you looking for a little levity should move onto your next distraction because I'm, at the moment, facing up to a little brevity. Here it is.

You remember how in some old Greek mythology there were some spiteful Gods up on Mt. Olympus who would decide to rain down a curse or two down on some poor unlucky human sucker here on Earth? They did it, sometimes, just for kicks but more often it was as punishment for something the dim-witted human had done. Something along the lines of sleeping with a swan or falling in love with their own reflection. That sort of thing. But, the curses I always hated in mythology were the ones that did something, instead, to the people the naughty human loved. Because, let's all agree that having something happen to someone you love is generally harder to handle than our own misfortunes. And, here's where I wonder where I messed up and ticked off a God or two.

Here comes the serious part.

The people that I love the deepest...as in my very close high school friend, my best work friend, best growing up friend (x2), my first serious boyfriend and even my husband....their fathers die. Unexpectedly. No pre-existing conditions. All under the age of 65.

Let that sink in because it's true. And horrible. And they don't happen a million years after I'm close to them like "Oh, she USED to be my close work friend but we moved on to other jobs and THEN her beloved father died." No, we became close friends and then it happened. My old boyfriends father died about three years into our four years relationship. My husbands father shortly after our first son was born.

It's cruel and awful and I hate it. I'm so tired of standing aside someone I love so much and aching for them as they say goodbye to their hero, their confident, their beloved Dad. And now I think my friendship should come with a warning label so there it is.

(sigh)

The 2nd part of this post comes as I think about my friend MM and her wonderful family who treated me as one of their own for 38 years. And of her beautiful Mom whose birthday was yesterday and that she spent it probably feeling little more than the terrible grief of the recent loss her husband. My own Mom sent me the new Pat Conroy book yesterday and I came across this paragraph. I both love it and abhor it but, either way, I think it's beautifully written and worth sharing.

"But fate comes at you cat-footed, unavoidable, and bloodthirsty. The moment you are born your death is foretold by your newly minted cells as your mother holds you up, then hands you to your father, who gently tickles the stomach where the cancer will one day form, studies the eyes where melanoma's dark signature is already written along the optic nerve, touches the back where the liver will one day house the cirrhosis, feels the bloodstream that will sweeten itself into diabetes, admires the shape of the head where the brain will fall to the ax-handle of a stroke, or listens to your heart, which, exhausted, will explode in your chest like a light going out in the world. Death lives in each one of us and begins its countdown on our birthdays and makes its rough entrance at the last hour and the perfect time."

Fate. God-damn.

I'm going to go hug my little men now. One is watching Wubbzy with a juicebox and the other is calling from his crib, anxious to get out of his feety pajamas and start the day. That, right now, is my fate. I'll be sure to enjoy every minute of it.