You're messing with my Zen thing, man!

     I just spent the last half hour literally laughing my ass off.  I took my first Pilates class at the MegaGym and it was challenging.  Maybe not so much from the workout, but from trying not to fart while silently giggling in the corner.  That and not stretching.  I assumed that we would do a little pre-stetching ritual, maybe work into the difficult moves.  But it was apparently my job to do that before we started ripping the muscles from their rightful places and throwing them across the room for 30 reps.

     That wasn't the funny part.  The hilarity of the situation was that I was in a room full of old ladies, one of whom was Hispanic and decided to let out an "Aye!" or Spanish inflected "Oh!" every time she flexed.  Have you ever tried breathing correctly with one leg behind you and the other in front of your face, above your head AND silently convulsing so nobody realizes just how humorous you think an old woman's pain is?  It's not easy.  But the good news, is that I definitely engaged my core!  It's involuntary to tense up the entire abdomen when suppressing laughter.

      Now I'm having some quiet time in the lobby with my netbook.  I still have 45 minutes before they make me haul the munchkins home or make me pay them extra to keep them alive.  I probably look ridiculous sitting here, but I love it.  I can sit here and type til my heart's content and nobody will yell, "Mommy!  Be the bad guy!  Now run from the dragon before it eats you!"  At least I hope not...but that would be an altogether different experience, wouldn't it? 

     And after cleaning up the spilled contents of a hamster cage, getting baby diarrhea sprayed onto me, and listening to 2 exceptionally needy children for all those hours yesterday--I might take my chances with any weirdos I might encounter here in the lobby.  I might leave with them.

Today's subject line quote is from TRON:  Legacy  (2010).

He's not going to quit bouncing, I'll tell you that.

     Excuse my absence.  Again.  I feel like 80% of my blogs start with some kind of apology these days. Sorry for that, too.  My family has been mega busy the last few weeks.  We've joined the gym, ended the school year, had a trip to the E.R. after dropping the baby on her head.  You know, the usual.  Don't worry, I'll elaborate that last one for you.

     Our theater has a summer program where they run old children's movies on the big screen for $3.  Michael loves it because he can go to the movies every week.  I love it because it basically costs pocket change and it includes popcorn and a drink.  This kid is a movie junkie.  We've seen almost every children's flick in the theater since the second Chipmunks came out in 2009.  Movies aren't cheap any more, never really were.  But now, even matinee showings are $7 a ticket.  For 3 tickets, it's 21 smackers!  If you factor in enough snacks and drinks for all of us, we're looking at having to sell organs on the black market.  Once Ivy is old enough that we have to pay for hers too, we might as well just give them Dom's nuts because we won't be affording any more children.
    
     That is, if Ivy lives past a year.  With my divine parenting skills and all, I mean.  I've got some mean baby dropping moves, let me tell you!  Moral of the story: "Don't try to pee with your infant in a baby sling."  I leaned too far forward and she popped right out of the front of it, smacking her head on the bathroom floor.  So not only did I have to worry about a concussion, her brain hemorrhaging, and cognitive delay, I also exposed her whatever the hell was growing on the floor of the public toilet.
     We made it in and out of the emergency room pretty quickly.  She wasn't showing any signs of trauma and after answering all the questions about the fall, the doctor gave me a why are you even here? look. But Michael reminds me any time that I use the carrier that "If Ivy falls out, we'll have to take her back to the hospital.  So be careful!"

     But when I'm not throwing my children on the ground, I've been spending my free time preparing for my sister-in-law's upcoming destination wedding.  We're headed to Denver on Friday and I'm extremely excited to be going out there.  DiMaggio weddings are inexplicably fun.  It's a banquet hall full of loud Italians with Dom's quirky sense of humor.  What's not fun about that?
     Finding an outfit for the wedding, was not so enjoyable.  I went to seven stores over three days before I found something that fit well enough.  I could have given up earlier, but most of the ensembles looked like a strapless trashbag was draped around me. That's because my body is an asymmetric blob consisting of about 3 different dress sizes throughout. 
     My top was somewhere between a 12 and 14, my ass was a 10, and my gut a 12.  Seriously, did you know that when you have large breasts and then have two kids, they get even BIGGER?  I got fitted by a specialist and these ladies are a 34 FF.   The Victoria's Secret "bra wench" tried to stuff me in a 36 DD the day before that.  Ha!
     I was able to find a decent pick.  It's a simple, yet elegant, blue dress that I'm spicing up with a belt and strappy shoes.  Know what the final size was?  An 8. 

     I  should just change my name so that my initials are WTF.  Those would make a nice monogram for a set of towels, don't you think?

Today's subject line quote is from Kung Fu Panda  (2008).





   

Here. It's all right here in my noodle. The rest is just scribbling. Scribbling and bibbling, bibbling and scribbling.

     It's been almost a week since my day at the spa and I still really, really want to write a post about my experience.  Unfortunately, I've had a unusual week packed with tons of other bloggable material and have no idea when I'll get to share any of it at length.
   Such as today.  I waited 15 minute for the handicap fitting room at Ross to open up so I could fit my big-ass stroller inside the stall and not have to get dressed half in the hallway so nobody would steal my baby.  After the eternity passed, I expected to see an old lady open the door or even another mom whom I could exchange the "yeah, I know" head nod and cram my travel system through the door.  Not even close!  It was a perfectly bipedal adult, the size of my middle finger...of which I wanted to show off to her so badly.
     There were 7 empty dressing rooms of an appropriate size, but Miss Petite Thing had brought in probably 20 items and, I guess, wanted it to feel like a walk-in closet.  Who knows?  She could have taken a nap in there for the amount of time I was stuck waiting, shoved into the mirror corner.   And then I got stuck in 1 of my 2 dresses I wanted to try on!  Because, apparently, I have a size 10 ass and size 18 boobs.

     There's also been late nights with both kids, followed by a vomiting preschooler who, later in the same day, could have finished a marathon before the end of a Robot Chicken sketch.  Obviously I have a lot of lovely stories that I am excited to share, but such stories keep me from posting.  Vicious cycle, folks.
     In the midst of such, I've actually gotten some sincere suggestions that I write a book based on all my chaotic happenings.  I have to confess that the idea has landed on my brain a few times, but this pattern of disarray makes it pretty unlikely unless I find some serious time to myself--which is partly why I have decided to rejoin the ranks of the Naked Grannies and rejoin Megagym.
     Though the most appealing aspect of rejoining is probably just being able to shower and throw some makeup on in a quiet environment, even if the old ladies like to walk around in le buff.  I know that's totally not real French.  But "le nu" probably wouldn't make sense if you didn't already know real French, so...le suck it.  Also not real French.  Regardless, I'm hoping to spend some time post workout working on more entries and maybe even compiling a stack of crap to photocopy and send to you guys as a "book."  Or send to a publisher, whatever.  Oh, and I created a facebook page.  "Like" me, would ya?
 
     But my dinner is burning and this has already taken me about 4 hours long to write this than I had hoped.  So I'm going to go salvage my pasta. 

Today's subject line quote is from Amadeus (1984).

Dozens of people spontaneously combust each year. It's just not really widely reported.

     Summer is quickly approaching. Here in Slidouche that means a number of unpleasantries that will inevitably lead to my hermitage, i.e. back sweat from just walking to the mailbox, fear of their imminent death by putting my children in the car, having to put deodorant on under my boobs, etc. 
     Somehow the Earth's rotation defies physics and allows the sun to shine directly on me and I will either catch fire or spend the next three months with a perpetual, blistering burn.  All while the native Slidouchebags (no offense to those of you I know personally), have developed a tolerance for this heat and walk around looking fabulously tan.  Did you guys get your sweat glands removed or something?  Seriously, why am I the only one spraying people in the eyes with my armpit juice?
     
     As you may remember from a previous post, I have been preparing myself for these days through the art of self mutilation--commonly referred to as "shaving."  I even risked getting the cancer and sat outside yesterday, trying to get some color.  And yet, these post-baby hormones have foiled my plan again!

     Now I have skin that is simultaneously oily and dry, leaving a layer of grease over my splotches of flaking face.  I also have a curling iron burn on my forehead, mountainous zit on my chin, and an unidentifiable, hot pink spot on my left cheek that form perfect 90 degree angles.  Combined with my razor burned and slightly off-white legs, I appear to have some sort of necrosis.  I expect my feet to turn black and fall off any day now.  Which is one of many reasons I'm looking forward to my spa day on Friday; I desperately need a qualified stranger to take a cheese grater to my hooves.

     I will try to remember and shave before then, since my first pedicure was when I was 9 months pregnant and couldn't see my lower body much less reach it.  Poor guy probably felt like he was rubbing down Bigfoot's gams for all the lotion matting up my leg hair.  I just had to remind myself that pregnancy justifies such actions, and that Lady Gaga would surely pull off a Yeti look at the next Grammy's. 

Today's subject line quote is from This is Spinal Tap (1984).

They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn.

With all of the anti-bullying campaigns that Dom and I have run across lately, we've had some interesting conversations this week regarding our own childhood experiences.  Neither of us divulged many details, per se, but in the near decade we've been together it's been easy to piece together a decent picture of what each other have been through.  I'll spare you a verbose explanation and just say this--being bullied from elementary school and even up into high school had a majorly negative impact on both of us. 

Goes without saying, right?  Then why is there still bullying and the need for such dramatic efforts to stop it?  There is an exercise for coping with the intense feelings that has recently come to my attention--an open letter to all past bullies.  I've decided to publish mine, here on the blog, in an attempt that is twofold.  First, that anyone who has ever shared these feelings or is currently being bullied might find solace in my sharing such personal thoughts, and even find courage to stand up and make a difference for themselves and others.  And secondly, that persons reading this post will understand just how serious bullying should be taken and help provide a zero tolerance atmosphere.

Dear Bullies,

I spent 6 years of my childhood and adolescence praying for cancer because I was too scared to take my own life.  Perhaps it was worth the consequences--physical pain, an eternity in hell, or worst yet...the repercussions if I survived a suicide attempt.  It could be misinterpreted as a "cry for help," labeling me weak and cowardly, and surely dozens of other terms to go alongside a few I already had:  weird, ugly, pale, poor, fat, etc.  A childhood friend of mine succeeded at taking her own life when we were teenagers, but the brief time she spent in the hospital, struggling in her last moments, were enough to turn the rumor mill...and I heard how truly awful my peers could be.

But it most certainly would not have been the truth.  I just wanted relief.  And at the time, it felt like death was my best option.  I wanted to die, and it was 95% your fault.  Yes, depression runs in my family.  But I'll never know if I would have felt the same crushing feelings if they hadn't been provoked by my environment.  

Now, I'm old enough to realize that most of what you bullies did was out of ignorance.  Many of you didn't understand how to process social behavior and have since gone on to become upstanding citizens.  Others of you, I believe might have just been sociopaths and have since grown up to become serial killers.  I know some of you let jealousy convince you that I was a threat to your friendships.  Some couldn't make friends easily and used manipulation as the only accessible tool.  But most of you just didn't accept that, for many reasons, I was different. 

No matter the reason or intention, I grew up believing what you told me about myself was true.  As a result, I had low self-esteem, little confidence, and a poor understanding of social relationships.  It's only now, 9 years out of high school, that I feel like I've gotten a grip on my own life.  You may read this one day and still perceive me as strange, and it might still be true.  I am different, and sometimes differences make the difference. 

Bullies,  I am still angry.  I believe you stole part of me that never got a chance to grow with my body.  Sometimes I still daydream of a parallel universe where those things were never said, and I got to be the person I should have been.  And sometimes I'm grateful for these experiences, for molding my personality into what it is now.  For letting me bond with husband over common events, and for allowing us to know the right way to raise our children.  We will never forget you.  And by some inexplicable need, I forgive you.  But please, please, do what is in your power to NEVER let this happen to another child again.  

Sincerly,

Cassidy


Today's subject line quote is from The Dark Knight (2008).

Is it crazy, or just weird? Weird I can deal with, but crazy...

I feel like I should apologize for my last entry.  Obviously, I shouldn't have watched My Sister's Keeper so soon after having a sick child.  I must have set the blog load on heavy wash because it was soaking in the melodrama.  Honestly?  I think I've been secretly craving a bit of crazy. Without all the absurd chaos that somehow shapes itself into my life, the blog is boring.  And by boring, I mean that the new post tab sits open, holding two poorly edited sentences for three months. 

How can I have gone so long without at least a smidge of weird making it's way in somewhere?  Weird usually finds me.  Like how some people always step in gum?  I used to step in weird every day.  Perhaps I've just been so preoccupied with keeping my children alive that I just haven't been seeing the usual blog-worthy tidbits.  Cee-Lo Green could walk up next to me in his Elton John-turkey-guise from the Grammy's, and I wouldn't notice because I'm busy wiping baby spit off my shirt and telling my preschooler that the Winn-Dixie is not the place to yell "penis" and proceed to whip it out.

So I guess there's always that.  But seriously, I'm ready for the WTF level to raise back to chronic so I can remain dazzling you guys with my like, words.  And stuff.

Today's subject line quote is from Bones--The Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2009).

They gave me medication. So I feel how I imagine people of average intelligence feel, all the time.

"Bet you never thought you'd be covered in baby blood, huh?"  It's true, I never pictured myself with my infant daughter's blood all over my pink Tinkerbell tee, but as my husband said it--everything became less surreal.  It snapped me back into the green-walled room of the pediatric ward where I began to process what had happened in the last several hours--that our 3 month old hadn't eaten and become so dehydrated that two nurses and a phlebotomist pricked her limbs so badly, she bled all over the emergency room linens and my clothes.  The storms had also knocked out power to most of the area until after midnight (and therefore the elevators), so I carefully carried her up four flights of stairs as to not detach her from the precious saline hep-lock it had taken nearly 2 hours to get right.

How did it get to this?  Weren't we just fighting to get out of the hospital from Ivy's birth?  She's 12 weeks old and has spent approximately one quarter of her life in a hospital.  The NICU staff assured me that she wouldn't be chronically ill after winning the battle with her lungs--she was a normal baby, healthy.  So two and a half months later, we land ourselves back in?

It does seem to be happenstance, coincidence, or what-have-you.  It was an innocent virus that caused her to lose appetite and become dehydrated.  There was never any real threat of impending death, but hearing doctor's throw out terms like meningitis, spinal tap, and kidney ultrasound didn't help my already trembling body and belabored mind.   I want a healthy child! Not having to choose which child I get to see per day.  Happenstance or not, I'm tired of being recognized by the hospital nursing staff. 

We are on the mend, and this is what I have to say:

My declaration to the universe--I'm done with dumb luck.  In the last 3 months we have had medical crisis, the presage of evicting the tenants from our rental, our estimated moving date changed 3 times (causing major planning problems for preschool applications and finding a rental), and the threat of a delayed paycheck--all while coping with personal emotional issues for both my husband and self and keeping up with a cranky, incontinent dog.  I need some honestly good, no strings attached, stress-free news.  Also some time to do our taxes.

Today's subject line quote is from "Bones" Harbingers in a Fountain (2009).