Sunday, April 24, 2011
It has been a year ( and a tiny bit ) since I started Pilates.
I was the big, whale of a girl, laying on the mat.
It appeared that I was quite devout and religious.
Cuz there was a LOT of praying going on:
“Dear God in Fucking Heaven – HELP ME”
“God, I will give you anything, anything if you will transport me out of this room.”
“Holy Jesus, let the hour be over RIGHT NOW!”
Well, and there was this . . .
“WHAT? WHAT do you mean there are FIFTY MORE MINUTES LEFT IN THE CLASS?”
And the gentle sobbing. And the not so gentle sobbing.
And the breathing that sounded just like sobbing.
But hey, I’m a Big Girl, with some seriously messed up joints, so Pilates seemed like the only thing standing between me and some sort of assisted walking device.
So I just showed up. I swore. I wept. I swore. I prayed. And I cried inside.
I also believed that no one had ever suffered or endured such pain during exercise. (I actually still believe this to be true.)
So it’s been a year.
And I can do a lot more stuff. (Like touch my feet. Hey, for me the goals were somewhat modest.)
Though I still think the hour is over when it has only been 20 minutes.
I still pray for a divine intervention at least twice during each class.
And I am pretty sure the teacher judges Fat Chicks.
Who could blame him? My teacher worked for Richard Simmons for 15 years. That must do something to a man.
And may I just say, my teacher doesn’t exactly bring that upbeat Richard-Simmons-sunshine to our Pilates class.
But I’m sure, in my mind, that I’m the teacher’s pet. And I know he loves me. Cuz he keeps showing up!
And you know what? After a year of Pilates? I’m still a Fat Chick. And no, I have not turned 50 pounds of fat to muscle.
But I am a Fat Chick who can touch my toes! Hah! Take that Jesus!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Tax Season in our house is kinda brutal. Well, really it is a mixed bag.
We have an accounting firm, my husband is a CPA. So he’s working 7 days a week, some days 20 hours a day.
The good part of this? The bills start to get paid. (And btw, if you have been waiting for payment from us? Thank you. It’s coming. No, I swear, the check is in the mail.)
I try and hold everything together like a wife out of Mad Men. (Well, without the foundation wear. And the lovely manners.)
I try to hold our staff together by telling them I am there for them. (I’m not really, but I think it is so nice to say that.)
I try not to mention the fact that our shower appears to be leaking and has created a vast plaster buckling on the adjoining wall. Instead? I hang a rather odd, very large, king sized blanket beach towel over the oozing drywall.
And as soon as we are flush? (No pun intended – Dear God!) I’ll call the handyman. (And weep softly into my pillow that I won’t be getting an iPad, yet again.)
There is no leaving the kids with their dad and running a quick errand. My solution? I just don’t run errands during tax season. (So much easier to do without, rather than load the kids in the car with all their detritus and whining.
Oh wait…maybe that’s my detritus and whining. Well, no matter.)
Parent/Teacher conferences, music lessons, ballet, tutoring, birthday parties, medical appointments . . . I do it all without bitching. (OK, this is a total lie.
I bitch like crazy to anyone who will listen. Just not to @Taxes007.)
The training of the New Dog? Honey, don’t lift a finger. You just get your cup of coffee (from Starbucks people – I don’t make coffee!) and run along dear. I’ve got the new dog handled. (Vomit, crate break-outs, fence jumping, poop pick up, dog park tips, training sessions . . .)
And it was our wedding anniversary also. But I’m okay foregoing a dinner out or a celebration. No, no. Really. It’s been 15 years. Fifteen happy, wonderful years.
I understand the demands of our business. (Really, 15 flipping years and we can’t figure out how to get a little break during tax season???)
But while I am dusting in my girdle and heels, with a lovely stew on the stove, I count my blessings. (Translation: I’m LOOKING at the dust, I’m wearing a bad bra and stretched out yoga pants and the smell? The Carl’s Jr. I picked up for dinner.
And dammit! It smells great!)
But I do count my blessings. Thank God for tax season. We can replace our broken TV, get a decent bra and yoga pants, buy our little Glowie a new dress and our Blondie some new Lego. We can pay our mortgage payment (don’t get me started on how upside down we are in our house, I’m Blessing-Counting dammit!). And we will get some family time (which will be so much better when we have a TV!!!)
I can go back to bitching at my husband. And @Taxes007? He can get some sleep!!! So much better to enjoy his delicious dinner. From Carl’s Jr.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Tax Season is different in our house.
I know that you are panicking and experiencing all sorts of procrastination agony.
You’ve rediscovered afternoon soap operas rather than look for that envelope with the receipts.
That new Oprah network has some mesmerizing shit on it if instead you should be putting together your mortgage interest for the year. (Which is painful, cuz if you’re like us, you are paying interest on a HOUSE THAT ISN’T WORTH SHIT any longer. But I digress.)
And all of a sudden you’ve taken up a new zeal for housecleaning. I understand that speaks to how agonizing it is to put your money shit together and FACE FACTS.
But in our house? This is Hell Week. Except Hell Week lasts 8 weeks.
This is the time where I get to experience the intimate joys of being a single parent.
Cuz Daddy? He’s doing the Green Lightshade Thing. Every day. And night.
And me? I’m trying to hold everything together and “not bother Daddy.”
By hold together? I mean yell at the kids more, wish I hadn’t gotten that third dog, try to be in two places at the same time. (Ballet/Soccer; Band Concert/Dance Rehearsal-- you get the picture.)
There is weeping. “I miss Daddy.”
And it appears the children miss him also.
It is long hours.
When my youngest wrote a story about the seasons for school, she wrote that there are five seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall and TAX Season.
For her? It is an immutable Law of the Universe that for a couple of months a year, everyone hunkers down with a siege mentality and goes without sleep. (But not without nourishment. Oh No! There is PLENTY of BAD FOOD CHOICES being made!)
But Hey! This is OUR season. You know, the season where we make the money to pay our bills.
Honey? I’ll see you on the other side…The other side of April 15th.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
I work with a Social Media consultant in our business. She, luckily for me, happens to be my friend. And, she’s a little geeky. By “geeky”, I mean she understands things like “coding”, “search engine optimization” and “google analytics”.
And I like her anyway.
The other day she wants to tell me there is a problem with the coding of our website. (I don’t know what she actually said. It was all said very quickly and in Croatian, I’m pretty sure.)
Partway through the emergency phone meeting, (let’s just say I was involuntarily doing Kegels from the fear of how much money this “problem” was going to cost me), I stop her and say: Uh, you need to slow down. I don’t understand. And it might be very helpful if you took a brief moment to tell me my ass looks great right now. (In these baggy, worn-out Yoga pants.)
She pauses. (Cuz she can get very wound up when she speaks her own special Computer Nerd Language.)
I hear her little brain processing . . . processing . . . processing.
Then she responds: Your ass looks FANTASTIC!
And we move on. Well, she moves on.
I move to cut another check.
But every conversation we’ve had for the past four days? She slips a compliment about my ass in somewhere.
And I’m finding I’m much calmer about the problems and the cost of solving them.
Now, if I can just train my kids to do the same thing, when I am yelling at them about picking up their shoes!
Can you imagine? “Mommy, by the way, have I told you today that your bottom looks really, really pretty in those black stretch pants you wear every day?”
Uh, yeah. That would work for me!