I’ve Fallen. And I Was Just Barely Able to Get Up.

Remember those super duper awesome rollerblades I found the other day?

Yeah, well, I hate those fucking things.

I should have left them buried in the abyss that is my daughter’s closet. Or better yet, burned them on sight.

You see, it was a spectacular first day of Spring in Miami. The sun was shining. The weather was….not hot. So we decided to throw caution to the wind and head to the beach. On a school night.

We live on the edge like that.

As we packed up the car to rousing (and elusive) chants of “you’re the best parents EVER!” we decided to throw in the skates. Because the children had been begging to skate on the beach. Never mind that there’s an ocean to swim in and sandcastles to make and balls to toss around.

But, when we got to the beach, because we’re from these parts, we could not bring ourselves to walk into the frigid waters. So, after we dug holes, lay out and chased balls for a few hours, I decided to go for the holy grail of parenting and skate with the kids along the beach.

Save for some tricky patches of sand, all was going swimmingly until I made a pitstop at the restroom. As I was making my way back to the family, I lost my bearings and my legs rolled out from under me, leaving me with only one choice: try to absorb as much of the impact with my hands and avoid cracking my skull open.

Luckily, my head did not touch the ground. But my ass sure did.

I’m typing this through gritted teeth because my hands are all scraped up and bruised. The compounded force of landing on my hands and my butt has left my arms and back incredibly sore. Hell, even my ribs hurt.

And, to make matters worse, I’m waddling around like I had anal intercourse with 5 very well-endowed men. At the same time.

On the bright side, at least I didn’t break a hip or end up in traction. Which, at my age, is a depressing, but all-too-real concern.

Anybody in the market for some vintage, slightly scuffed up roller blades? Leave a comment below!

Freezers and the Decline of Ice Pick Murders

Today, as I was thinking about how grateful I am for ice makers, it dawned on me that they were probably singlehandedly responsible for the decline in murders committed with ice picks.

I had never really thought about ice picks before. Well, save for that one time I saw a movie where Sharon Stone killed someone with one. Or something like that. I think it’s the same movie where she wasn’t wearing underwear and flashed the camera. So if you missed the ice pick part, that was probably why.

Anyway, I never knew what an ice pick was for on the count of as long as I can remember, my freezer just made ice. No pick necessary.

But today, my husband told me some tall tale about how some guy would deliver a big ice block and they would keep it in a like a big cooler and plug in some type of fan to circulate the air or something.

That’s when I realized that’s what an ice pick must have been for.

And that my husband is old.

That’s when I also made the connection between the ice-maker and the decline in ice pick homicides. If that was ever thing. But if it was, I would venture to guess that we have the ice-making freezer to thank for it.

So, thank you ice maker, for always being there to keep my beverages frosty. And for stopping ice pick deaths.

Have you ever heard of an icepick? What do you use it for? Leave a comment below!

Roller Boogie with my Babies

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I found my old rollerblades today!

I don’t know who was more excited by the discovery, though – me or my kids. Well, they were pretty excited until they realized that mom’s pretty good on her blades and she can skate pretty damn fast.

Then, all they wanted was for me to skate and drag them along. Fun for them. Not so fun for my arms. But, I’ll admit, it was a fairly decent workout.

Anyway, I had given them to my firstborn when she first went off to college and I was sure I would never see them again.

But after seeing my littles skating around today, I decided to go check the eldest’s room and after rifling through all kinds of crap, I found them!

My teal, Katarina Allure Ultra Wheels inline skates. Man, I loved those things.

I vividly remember the day I bought them. It was the 90s and they were all the rage. I quickly realized, however, that I did not know how to operate those puppies. I also, for some reason, decided it would be a great idea to go out later that night to a happening part of town to meet up with some friends whom I’d also convinced it would be fun to skate. In the Grove. On a Saturday night.

And let’s not forget the part about how we were meeting up at a bar. At which we were planning to drink.

So I wisely decided that I needed to practice and for 6 or so hours, I skated up and down the street where I lived. When I was fairly confident I had mastered the whole rollerblading thing, I headed to the bar where I’m happy to report that aside from a few extremely embarrassing tumbles, I made it out relatively unscathed.

When I came across those same skates today, I was so excited but also rather saddened by the realization that my rollerblades are legit “vintage.”

But, they still work like a charm and I plan to put them back to use. If my daughter doesn’t try and jack them from me.

Did or do you have rollerblades? I’d love to know if you still use them. Leave a comment below!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kiss Me. I’m Not Irish but Screw It, It’s St. Patrick’s Day.

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This is the best holiday ever.

It’s also my brother-in-law’s birthday.

And although we’re not technically Irish, the fact that I thought we were until I was about 14 was enough to have ingrained an irrational obsession with the day for me.

You see, what had happened was that my mother had gone to an Irish school when she first moved the U.S. and as a result had developed a very strong and crazy connection with the culture. She would festoon our house and herself to the hilt, leaving anyone to think there was a pot of gold and some leprechauns hidden within.

So although I am now fully cognizant of the fact that I’m not Irish at all, which saddens me to no end, I still must celebrate this day in some way.

But because I have young children and I’m old and tired and because I had to cajole my sister and her hubby to come out for some Irish reverie, the six Cubans ended up celebrating early at a kid-friendly German establishment.

Because nothing says Erin go Bragh like Bratwurst, Sauerkraut and Wiener Schnitzel.

At least we wore an obnoxious amount of green and had that most traditional of Irish beverages, green beer. So I’m calling it a win.

 

Personal Space!

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I get that in some countries, there’s no such thing as personal space. Either because:

  • a) people, for some reason I cannot fathom, enjoy touching each other all the time or because
  • b)there are just too many people crammed together.

Now because I was born and raised in the U.S., I neither enjoy touching random people nor having random people touch me.

When I’m standing in line, I expect at least 2, if not three feet, of perimeter space.

If I can feel your breath on any part of my body, you’re standing too fucking close.

And when I try to casually move away from you a step, it is not an indication for you to also move a step closer to me. When I sigh loudly and step forward again, in no way, shape or form is it an invitation for you to do the same.

When I have tried to delicately deliver the hint to you that I am not enjoying your proximity and you still don’t fucking get it, you shouldn’t be shocked when I finally lose my whole mind and yell, “Personal Space!!!” like a fucking banshee at the top of my lungs.

The ONLY exception to this rule is if there’s a really hot guy that I wouldn’t mind “accidentally” rubbing up against.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not enjoy having my amygdala activated.

That is all.

How do you feel about people encroaching upon your personal space? Leave a comment below!

 

Thank God it’s Pi Day (π) & Einstein’s Birthday!

To honor both of these momentous events, I decided to run 3.14 miles and to share a little of why I heart both Pi and Einstein.

I have never been a fan of math. Nor it of me.

So much so that when I realized that if I majored in Marketing, I’d have to take more math classes. I promptly changed my major to Advertising and minored in Marketing instead.

But for whatever reason, I’ve always had an affinity for Pi. And for those savants that can slice Pi to 2.7 trillion digits.

Personally, I only know a handful:

π = 3.141592653589

And again, I’m ok with that.

Today is also Albert Einstein’s birthday. He would have been 138 years old . I have loved Al with the passion of a thousand suns. Perhaps partly because he possessed a genius I could only aspire to.

And also because he posited the mass-energy equivalence formula, E = mc2, which happens to be my initials. So there’s that.

He also left us with some pretty insightful quotes. Below are some of my favorites:

“Imagination is more important than knowledge.”
“Peace cannot be achieved through violence, it can only be attained through understanding.”
”The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits.”

Also, I may use this as an excuse to eat some pie today. Just because.

How do you celebrate Pi Day? Leave a comment below!

The Suicidal Duck

Duck close up

I was in shock. My kid was traumatized. And the duck was dead.

I was a single mom for a long time. And I was fairly young when I had my first daughter. So you can say that she and I sort of grew up together. Although, if you ask her, she’ll tell you she’s the mature one. And I’m ok with that.

When she was younger, we lived a bit of a distance from her school and my job, which meant that in order to get anywhere on time, I took a lot of shortcuts around traffic and through all sorts of neighborhoods, one of which was near a canal that was home to lots of ducks.

Now, neither my daughter nor I are morning people. Which sort of worked out since neither one of us was thrilled to be awake so early nor fond of having to speak. So we just sort of grunted at each other or rode in silence. Unless a good song came on. Or an apropos one.

Like the time we happened to be driving by the ducks and “Shake Ya Tailfeather” came on. And I cranked it up, rolled down the window and started singing and dancing along. Surprisingly, she found that amusing. And that was no easy feat. It’s incredibly tough to appease a teenage girl, believe you me.

So one day, as we came up on duckville, my kid pointed at me and yelled, “Duck!”

Me: Dude, what the hell is wrong with you? I know there are ducks.

Her: Duck!!!

Me: Stop yelling!

Her: Duck!!!

Now I’m thinking, “Oh, shit, are there gunshots or something?” (It is Miami after all)

Me: I can’t duck. I’m driving!

Her: NO! DUCK!!!!!

The next thing I knew, there was a loud THUMP! and a SPLAT! as I turned just in time to see a duck fly directly into my driver-side window.

Needless to say, that did not turn out to be a very good day. Not for me. Not for my daughter. And certainly not for the duck.

I was in shock. My kid was traumatized. And the duck was dead.

Have you had any strange encounters with wildlife? Leave a comment below!

 

I Just Want a Doughnut

The Salty Donut’s Maple Bacon Doughnut

I’ve been wanting one forever. But since I also want to lose weight, I haven’t had one.

I don’t want one badly enough to actually go out of my way to get one. And luckily, I don’t usually go anywhere where I might stumble upon one.

So I let the desire come and then eventually, it passes. And I forget. Until I remember again.

And I just remembered.

But I don’t want just any doughnut. It has to be a really good one. With bacon. Because if I’m going to eat something sinful, I’m going straight to pure evil.

Pure, piggy-topped evil.

#getinmybellyDoughboy

Also, while we’re on the subject, I’ve often wondered: Does the Pillsbury Doughboy have dough nuts?

What have you been craving? Leave a comment below!

Why I Quit the Gym

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Disclaimer: This is not a picture of me!

Even while I was at the gym, filling out the required paperwork (because they don’t make it as easy to quit as they do to sign up,) I recognized the irony that at the time of year when everyone else is joining, I was ending my long relationship and tumultuous relationship with it. And really, the main reason I was paying for the gym to begin with was because I needed access to a pool for triathlon training. But, I hadn’t been swimming.

And I had finally just decided that I was done making my monthly donation.

Now, it’s not that I don’t like to work out. I just realized that I hardly ever went to the gym. And when I did go, I basically just hit the treadmill or the stair climber. And then I’d saunter over to the machines and do some legs. And maybe some arms. Then I’d hit the mats to do a little ab work and stretch.

The gym is an intimidating place. It’s filled with all kinds of people – from novices to muscle heads. The former are incredibly annoying. And the latter scare the shit out of me.

Because a lot of them can be very judgmental. And the last thing I want when I’m trying to work out is to feel like a fool for doing something wrong. I have a friend who’s notorious for catching people on video using the machines in very creative ways. I do not want to end up on one of those videos.

Anyhow, my best workouts, the ones where I actually felt like I was making real progress, didn’t happen at a huge gym with all the bells and whistles. They took place in a much more intimate, albeit still intimidating, atmosphere.

I’m referring to my experiences at a smaller gym with a personal trainer. And while an argument can be made that all of the money I donated to the gym for all of those years would have been better spent paying a trainer, what I paid monthly for the gym wouldn’t have covered an hour for a one-on-one session.

Having said that, I find myself at a cross-roads. I’m not currently in a financial situation where I can afford either, so I make do, alternating between cycling through the myriad videos I’ve purchased throughout the years and just jumping rope or shooting hoops with my babies.

And although I’ve been religiously adhering to my commitment to do some type of exercise every day this year, I’m just not seeing the results I’d like to see.

I know. I know. Diet is essential if you want to see any kind of real results in terms of weight loss.

But, because I’m not in it just to drop some lbs, I’ll continue to work out in whatever capacity I can until I can pay someone to make me do it right. And I’ll continue to try and watch what I eat. And cut down on the drinking. At least until next week, anyway.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day. I may not technically be Irish. But really, since when does that fucking matter?

How do you stay fit and lean? Leave a comment below!

 

 

 

Why do They Insist on Playing Loud, Crappy Music at Restaurants?

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Before anyone calls me old, let me just preface this by saying that I’ve NEVER liked loud music. So it’s not about being old.

But seriously, why??

I can understand playing loud music at a concert. Or even at a club. But a bar or a restaurant is not the right venue for it.

Most people go out to these establishments accompanied by others. Because in addition to eating and drinking, you presumably want to also have a conversation.

And I don’t know about you, but I do not want to yell into someone’s ear. Or get home feeling like I’ve smoked a carton of cigarettes because my throat is sore and hoarse from trying to speak to the person next to me.

And, to add insult to injury, it’s never good music they play. Not anything you can sing or dance to. It’s just noise. Loud, annoying, noise.

So, please, if you own or manage a restaurant or bar, cut that shit out.

By all means, play music. I’m not a music nazi. But make sure it’s good. And for the love of all that is holy, keep it at a normal decibel level.

One whereby people can carry on conversations without incurring injury to their vocal chords.

How do you feel about blaring noise while you’re trying to have a conversation at a restaurant or bar? Leave a comment below!