You may have noticed, I am rarely mistaken for Heidi Klum, or any of her uber-glam friends. Despite the euphemisms you've all been so gracious as to extend, the plain and simple and bitter truth is, I am fat. Obese, if you want to be technical. I have only dwelled within the plus-sized realm in the years since Reilly's birth, and I think subconsciously I've been expecting to just shrink back down to my pre-baby size, which was quite thin. To expedite the process, and as a pre-celebration, I've indulged in 500 calorie coffees, and entire boxes of donuts, just knowing my old body was right around the corner, when in fact, my current body reaches around the corner, lol.
B and I lost 30 pounds apiece last spring, just eating with common sense and dancing. (Please, no one conjure up an image of me dancing. I shall be forced to kill us both.) So we know we can do it. We just always cave in situations wherein we are: A) out and about, B) in, C) sad, D) happy, E) deserving. So you can see our dilemma. B has joked, after so many false starts, that "We need a ceremony or something." So this is it. I'm announcing in front of all our friends/enemies/lurkers, that as of now we are 100% committed to dropping some serious weight. No excuses.
In lieu of the gifts lavished upon royalty at a real ceremony such as this, all we ask is that none of you nosh anything sweet/salty/bready/carby/delicious/marginally palatable in our presence. We'll be eating lettuce wrapped in lettuce, and it would really mean a lot to us if you'd do so in solidarity. No seriously, break out the Twinkies if you must. We're going hard-core, and we won't even wince.
Yeah, this pretty much sums up my electrifying dalliance with Barack Obama today: (Please excuse the fact that I look like the undead.)
(I would also like to point out that he looked at and spoke to me directly while answering. Ask B.)
In case you have something really wrong with you, and couldn't tell, I was so nervous speaking in front of 4,000 people I almost passed out. Instead, I just stuttered and trailed off like a simp. And what you could not possibly know is that the senator called on Brandy and me, since were both waving our hands, and it was only because she selflessly bestowed the floor on me that I was able to mutter what little I did get out. I owe her big, and B, at about 4:19 into that video, you will recognize a beautiful familiar face smiling brightly. Thank you so much.
B and I waited in the freeeeezing-ass cold (in t-shirts) in a line that snaked from the armory to Timbuktu, along with what appeared to be half the state, just to get a glimpse of this man Obama. It was a good couple hours until we finally inched our way inside, past the windy vortex at the entrance, past the 10 ft. x 10 ft. protest posters of mutilated babies, through various turn styles, and a few metal detectors. Once inside, where I was determined to get floor seats, we were told the floor was full. This didn't deter me in the least, and I proceeded to lie and say that our party of four already had seats. I have exceptionally good rally karma, and spied exactly four empty chairs in the last row. Our enthusiasm gave way to full-blown adrenaline as it became clear that our man was close, and we were standing on our chairs screaming our fool heads right off.
And then it happened. This man, this almost mythical figure, this embodiment of hope and change, appeared before our very eyes, and I honestly started to weep. I must clarify that I am not as concerned with his celebrity as I am with his message, his movement, if you will, and seeing him before us brought the dream very close to home. He spoke with comfort, ease, authority, and vigor about everything from how to strengthen Oregon, to how to restore America's luster, and finally, how to bring our men and women home from Iraq. The crowd responded with deafening applause, so many times. There was no one highlight for me, as I was just awestruck by his vision, and his execution. Having my own little conversation with him, amidst the sea of people, still has me swooning, but B and I go to heighten our experience by rushing the stage (is that what it's called?) at the end, and getting up close and personal. In addition to photographic proof of our miraculous proximity, we both shook/held hands with him, and we both got to speak with him briefly. I looked him squarely in the eye and said, "I cannot wait to call you my president," to which he replied, while leaning waaay in, "thank you." Several people told me later it looked like he kissed me, which I like to think was his intention, lol. B took her moment to thank him, and he replied with a very genuine "no, thank you."
I really don't know how much better it could have gone, short of being recruited by his personal staff to work on his campaign, or maybe for all the people from my high school and college to have seen me connect with my hero. I can tell you that I have stormed the stage to shake hands with Bill Clinton, John Kerry, Howard Dean, and recently my kids and I were photographed with Senator Ron Wyden (a favorite of mine). And with all due respect, those brilliant men are forgettable by comparison. At the risk of losing all credibility, my experience today was magical, and I have hope that Obama's grass roots, from-the-bottom-up politics is the answer. The answer. That is what I told the Statesman Journal, the freelance journalist who interviewed us, and that is what I will continue to say until we catapult Barack Obama into the White House, where he belongs.
Yes We Can. Si Se Puede.
Just what the doctor ordered:
And we even got closer than this...
And so we've shaken on the deal.
He is worthy of the hype. And you all KNOW I never say that.
Sibling rivalry was pretty much ruining my life as of a few weeks ago, and my options were either to sell the children into slavery, or to conceive of a way to motivate good behavior. I chose the former, but couldn't get Todd on board. He misses out on most of their corrivalry, and is thusly quite attached to them. So I embarked upon a journey to locate, and lure, whatever inner angels had withstood all the gruesome battling. It is with some shame that I confess to you that I have relegated my 8 and 9 year olds to a chart system.
The only chart we have ever used was for potty training a million and one years ago, but it was a wild success. Each kid trained in under a week. Nevertheless I felt a little like I was insulting them to implement these charts, but they have responded so incredibly well, I'll take anyone to the mat about it now, lol.
So Quinn and Rei each have a small chart, with 80-something squares, and they get a star sticker (those ones that our teachers used) for showing exceptional effort to be kind/considerate/tolerant/patient/non-violent towards one another. They do not get stars for adhering to a base level of courtesy or manners, nor for making their beds, doing schoolwork, or brushing their teeth without being asked, for these things are all expected of them. They get stars for walking away from a fight, compromising, negotiating, being generous beyond expectation (giving up the front seat), and for going long periods of time interacting peacefully, and in a way that doesn't make me want to slit my wrists. They may not ask for stars, or point out their good behavior. As you can see from the picture, I am not liberal in doling them out, though secretly, I do delight in it. I love the way they beam when I recognize their achievements, and I am proud to say that chivalry is becoming the norm around here. When their cards are full, they will receive $20, which isn't that much, so I'm surprised at how hard they're working. I'd like to think that underneath all the surliness are two kids who want to please their mama.
Anyway, that's what we're doing, and it's working wonders.
Oh, my kids have code names for some odd reason, don't ask me why. Reilly goes by "Fathom," and Quinn by "Zerix."
Sometimes even a serial over-scheduler outdoes herself, and today is one of those days. I say is because, well, there are many ways in which to interpret 'is,' as we learned from President Clinton, but I used it because my days is still in progress. My Tuesday looks like this.:
Wake up early and not resent everything
Clean my house, including hanging 4,500 of my wet garments so they don't shrink.
Get kids up and ready without yelling.
Post a blog for Gail.
Answer four urgent emails, despite running late.
Straighten my hair (talk about tedium).
Drop the kids off with my mom, after mediating the fight over the BACK SEAT!?!?!?!
Go to the dentist for a cleaning; force them to reiterate how beautiful my teeth are.
Pick up my gym clothes.
Buy .7 cents worth of son-of-a-bitchin' gas.
Hit Old Navy in search of more of a certain kind of elusive socks for Quinn.
Drop in to B's to rifle around for some grub.
Rendezvous with my FANTABULOUS psychiatrist; confirm that I am still crazy.
Return to B's to wait for (K).
Write this blog.
Have dinner with (K), and hopefully drinks.
Have tea with Megan at Starbucks, DON'T FORGET MORE COFFEE GROUNDS for B's garden.
Drop off B's dad's birthday gift in NE Salem.
Hit the gym with B, work our guts out.
Drive B home.
Call Todd to tell him to let the kids stay up so they remember who I am.
Come home and kiss them until they push me away.
Read chapters 3 and 4 to them.
By then it will be sunrise and we'll have Wednesday's list to contend with.
Today was the big reunion. We parted on awkward terms, seeing very little of each other before the big break. I was even paying for the offending party to stay away from me. So this is a big deal. I finally found it in my wicked little heart to reconcile...
...with the gym, duh! You guys thought my life had reached soaring heights of drama, and I was really just talking about the gym. Sheesh.
So I went this morning, with all of the accoutrements that make us feel bad-ass there, but really just slow us down. (ie iPod, water bottle, phone--because God forbid I am inaccessible for one hour)
I had my playlist all set. It's called "no shoe dropping," which is a reference to my crippling depression and my subconscious obsession with the other shoe dropping in any and all circumstances. Of course my loyal readers (hi Mom!) will remember that Footloose is the absolute highlight track, and I rocked out to it while doing calf raises, lifting 90 pounds--a very big deal for me.
My workout began with the gluteal interval course on the treadmill, which really got me pumped--pardon the cliche. Between completing that course, and Survivor blasting Eye of the Tiger in my ears, I practically swaggered into the weight room, thinking I was Arnold Schwarzenegger, except he would never have a pink iPod arm band. After completing my set, I returned to the treadmill and selected the most intense incline track, with which I have had a severe love/hate relationship for four years. I should mention that I hadn't showered yet, which is extremely uncomfortable, and I also kept mouthing the words to my music, which wasn't helping me earn popularity points, but the real fun started when I had to clutch the bar with all my might when the incline reached its summit. I suddenly became keenly aware of my greasy hair, my bra straps showing, my pathetic loserness.
But oh well. I refuse to cheapen my proud achievement with negative self talk. There'll be plenty of that on other days. Today I'm basking in the glory of bettering my life. (Queue music)
Still, I was really disappointed afterward when I looked in the mirror and saw Kirstie Alley.
B is my most fervent cheerleader, in all realms, and I am hers. This is especially true in matters of the home front. We encourage each other to forge ahead on days when we're dog tired and uninspired, and we have a wonderful reciprocity with grace for those times when it's just not happening. But mostly we keep each other going, and relish each others' successes.
Our primary method of mutual inspiration is our use of "challenges." When one or both of us is lagging, the other throws out a loving, creative, and clever challenge, proportional to what the other can reasonably handle in the moment. When B is out of coffee and the kids are sick and the dryer is melting all of their clothes, for instance, I would never challenge her to clean her whole house. But I would challenge her to spend a half an hour in her garden, rejuvenating. This was one of her challenges this morning, along with spending a half an hour cleaning something inside the house. In turn, she challenged me to study up on lapbooks and introduce them to Quinn, as well as clean one surface/cupboard/drawer that has been seriously neglected. (Yes even ocd mamas neglect some things.) I've posted before and after pics of the drawer I selected. Man it was grody.
Since we spend a lot of time in each other's homes, we can set awesome challenges with ease. B knows the top of my refrigerator is getting cluttered again, and will crack the whip on it, and I know that clean towels are becoming scarce at her house, and will challenge her to do a load of them right away. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not romanticizing these challenges. Sometimes they downright suck. This is particularly true when I've just sat down for my Lost reruns, or when I'm so tired my eyes are crossing, or when my ocd is flaring up and I'd sooner burn my f-ing house down than try to clean it. My least favorite challenge was to clean off our hillbilly white trash porch, and then paint it and wash down the back door. I'm still a little bitter, even though she did come over to help with the painting. My favorite challenge came last weekend when I was feeling sooo resentful and obstinate. She told me I had to put away 15 things, throw away 15 things, and wipe down 15 things. Sheer genius! I immediately made a list, and within one hour had crossed all 45 things off. My house still has a little sparkle from that one.
Uh oh, I'm getting dangerously close to a novella. Sorry guys. I could talk cleaning all day. Instead, I think I'll clean all day. B, this challenge took five minutes, got anything harder? (No painting please!)
I swear this is short. I'm just looking for a pat on the back.
My kids spent Wednesday night at my mom's, so I hung around B's house all day trying to will $2.51 into $20.00 so we could eat really bad delicious food. We wondered if there were any merchants who might accept magic beans from the garden, an I.O.U., or one of Addison's rock necklaces as currency, but ultimately were stuck with the classic Krap Macaroni & Cheese vs. Top Ramen debate.
Anyway anyway, I personally did nothing constructive the entire day. That is, until later when I picked up my kids. I whisked them home to get jackets, and got cajoled into allowing not only a bike, but some jumpy trampoline shoes of Quinn's. We headed to McKay track, where we met my mom for a mile-long walk just as it was turning from dusk to getting-mugged dark. After sprinting, speeding, and bounding around the track, we took my ma home and the kids and I went to the Courthouse gym, where I signed Brandy and myself up for a two year membership (yea!). Then I took my kids out to eat, and brought them home to say goodnight to their dad. Finally, we went back to my mom's to watch Lost, because hello, "My name is Cheyenne, and I am a Lostaholic." There we were treated to beef roast and (only a dollop I swear B!) of mashed potatoes, and an hour of Desmond (Henry Ian Cusick), who may have surpassed Sayid's lead for my unswerving devotion.
Anyway, not a shabby job of bringing up the caboose of a mostly unproductive day right?
Turns out our humble little house party was just a cover. Tonight was electrifying. Granted, we weren't exactly turning people away at the door, and our donations won't make any headlines, but I can feel the inspiration in the marrow of my bones, and I have never said that in all my years as a voter.
I've known for weeks that I'd be bidding adieu to John Edwards, and was fully prepared to shift my support to Obama, but in preparing for this party, listening to our guests, and re-watching some kick-ass speeches online, I have been infused with a fervor that almost defies description. You see, I am a half-hearted Democrat who believes that the system, justice, even the voting process, are all so corrupt as to belie the freedom we hold so dear. I think even the good politicians are crooked, that the ones who might actually make a difference die in small plane crashes, and I have serious doubts as to many of events we are taught as historical fact. I think we're in it pretty deep, and it's going to take a lot more than some shiny Democrat to muck us out. So you could say I have a pretty thick crust of apathy around my heart these days, and that is what I brought to the table tonight.
We on the left have some serious barriers to contend with if we're going to conquer what has become our collective voice of cynicism. The media's for sale, the voting is rigged, the good guys aren't much better than the bad guys, everyone's in it for the oil, and so on. Enter Barack Obama. While I applaud Hillary Clinton's global strategizing, I am moved almost to tears by a man who has a plan to strengthen the bodies, minds, and homes of every American, so that before long, we are the voice of power, not the elites, that we may see a restoration of the America that once was. His focus is on building up our rapidly deteriorating country one inner-city street at a time, and giving voices back to those of us left reeling and empty by the haves.
Ordinarily I would hesitate to say this because I try not to lose credibility by the gallon when I can help it, but I believe Obama's words. I believe that he is about more than a platform, and I can honestly see him rolling up his sleeves to fight for what he's promising. He's not being compared to and endorsed by the Kennedys for nothing. This guy's the real deal, and I encourage everyone whose apathy has paralyzed them to take a gander here.
Read it. Repeat it. To anyone who will listen. Thanks.
Best get-up-and-clean-the-house-right-now-song of all time?
Footloose, by Kenny Loggins.
Everybody cut, everybody cut.
I will concede that The Chicks (of the Dixie persuasion) can get me into one hell of a groove, but if I'm really dragging, please Louise, pull me off a my knees. (bad grammar cringe)
