The plank of death

I don’t like much about exercise, but if I had to pick a least favorite part, it would be running. I wouldn’t run unless something was chasing me and even then, I don’t think I would do it well. The runner-up (ha!) would certainly be ab exercises of any type. Perhaps that is why my stomach has never ever ever ever returned to its pre-baby state.

When my personal trainer enthusiastically moves into the ab portion of the workout, I have to resist the urge to trip her, or pull the fire alarm in the gym. While I often question why I pay her to torture me, it is never more prevalent than it is at this time. A few weeks ago she caught me off guard when she said that we were moving to the ultimate ab workout and it was a CRUNCHLESS-ab exercise. Excuse me? You have a CRUNCHLESS-ab exercise that you’ve just conveniently forgotten to incorporate up to this point? Had I known CRUNCHLESS-ab exercises existed, I would certain have abs of steel by now, no?

Moments later, she effortless demonstrated a position called the plank. Not only did it look obnoxiously simple, but you didn’t have to do anything once you assumed the position. Yup, you heard it right, a stationary crunchless-ab exercise. Does it get any better than that? After she showed me how to do the plank, she told me that our goal would be for me to hold it for one minute. Oh, absolutely. Where has this exercise been all of my life?

I quickly got into the plank position. It didn’t take too long before karma totally showed up to kick my ass. I was mentally trying to back track to moments earlier; trying to erase my smug look and those taunting words like easy, effortless, and wimpy. My arms started quivering, certainly milliseconds away from spontaneously combusting. All the while, I was trying to figure out who sat the baby elephant on my lower back, as the hundreds of pounds of pressure there certainly was not a figment of my imagination. While I bit my lip and contemplated standing up and sprinting out to my car before she could catch me, she proudly declared that I had reached the 15 second mark, only 45 more to go! Then my head exploded.

As I was preparing to not-run on my treadmill tonight, I made Craig take a picture of me demonstrating the plank for all of you. For some reason, talking about the PLANK OF DEATH is not nearly as effective without a visual aid. The PLANK OF DEATH doesn’t require much explanation. In fact, the photo likely explains it much better than I could. I would easily write two paragraphs and you’d end up confused, standing on one leg with your arm wrapped behind your back, trying to figure out what to do next. The only caution for the plank (beside its intent to kill you) is to keep your butt flat, fairly level with your back and legs. Don't stick your butt up, or lower it down. In other words, if it doesn't feel like it is seconds away from killing you, you are DOING.IT.WRONG.


If you happen to enlarge this picture, please pretend that the debris on the rug is residue on my camera lens. It isn't, but it is so much better to pretend than to wonder what on earth really is on that rug...

A few things I’d like to say:

First, I dare you to try it, like triple-dog-dare.

Second, if you try it, you are hereby commanded to return to this blog and let me know just how long you were able to stay in the plank. Just don’t say longer than me, I am a sore loser.

Third, if you put a picture on your blog of you doing the plank, I might just love you forever.

Is this a true testament of the whole misery loves company ideology?

You done good Kate

I am a bit obsessive about being grammatically correct. I should clarify that I am so about certain grammatical things. Those would be the things that have nothing to do with the fact that I tend to ping-pong from 1st to 3rd person when I write and typically am equally challenged by remaining in either the past or present tense. Those have much more to do with the fact that I type of fast as I think (certainly a handicap) and often I am thinking about the next sentence prior to finishing the one that I am on. But besides those minor hiccups, I am an absolute expert in all things grammar. Or, perhaps I am just a smidge anal and tend to focus on a handful of common errors that make me want to pull my hair out strand by strand … by agonizing strand.

I must admit, I didn’t realize just how out of control my minor obsession had gotten. The other day, Kate was enthusiastically slaughtering the Kidz rendition of Big Girls Don’t Cry. I sarcastically, err I mean cheerily inquired, “Kate, are you going to be a singer when you grow up?”

“Yes mom, because I sing very well,” she replied.

She’s been infected with the grammar gene and may soon join the nerd squadron with her mother. Either that or she’ll be thoroughly confused by the majority of the population who use ‘good’ instead and miffed by the thought that her mother KNOWS NOTHING.

I won’t be worried until I hear, “Mother Dearest, where art my playdough?”

Feel free to share, what things drive you crazy? It's quite cathartic and commenting here removes that unhealthy obsession from being projected onto the children ...

I do, I mean I did

While at a work conference today, I was lamenting over what I was going to buy Craig for our anniversary. I was quite annoyed since he broke THE RULE and bought me something when we agreed that we wouldn’t buy each other gifts this year. While I should thoroughly enjoy the massage he surprised me with, it almost was not worth the stress of having to figure out how to purchase a gift in return in only a few short hours. My irritation may have been slightly elevated by the feeling that his blatant disregard of our agreement might have been over the guilt he housed from taking Mothers Day to a whole new level of suck this year.

During the gift purchasing conversation, the lady sitting next to me asked how many years we were celebrating. Then she exclaimed, “Oh my! You certainly don’t look old enough to have been married for eight years.” I resisted the urge to hug and kiss this unsuspecting stranger only because it might have been distracting to the other conference attendees.

As I think back to our wedding day, what resonates is that I had an absolute blast at our wedding. Let’s be real here, if there is anything you can take away from your big day, how cool is it that I can say that and mean it? I don’t recall much about the food, the decorations, and all of the minute details. I remember the family, the friends, and the celebration. In fact, we showed the Country Club a level of fun that it certainly had ever seen before. Also, as I look back at our wedding picture, I can’t help but think that I most likely couldn’t fit my left leg in that dress today. If I starved it for a week it might get above the knee. Maybe Kate could play dress-up with it? When on earth was I really a size 0?



In preparation for the wedding, I was terrified about the prospect of erupting into uncontrollable sobs. At that time in my life, I possessed an awkward super-sensitivity to weddings. I cried at every wedding I attended. I cried watching The Wedding Story on TLC. It is quite possible that I may have erupted into tears at the mere utterance of the word wedding. I’m not a hyperemotional person; it’s a phenomenon that was inexplicable. I was petrified that I would start crying at the alter and that I WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO STOP. What would they do? I’d feel the pressure of people looking at me and I’d cry more. Then I would try to recite my vows and they would be coming out in sobbing stutters, which is obviously the picture of glamour that every bride wants to paint. I think at one point I entertained learning sign, just as an assurance that I would survive when plagued with a case of the Ridiculous Wedding Cries.

As we proceeded with our vows, I noticed something absolutely shocking. My dear husband-to-be was starting to tear up. For a brief moment, I panicked, waiting for my own flood gates to open. Instead, I laughed. It was one of those highly inappropriate times to laugh, but it just happened. I was so astounded and blindsided by his tears that I couldn’t help but laugh. I giggled through the majority of the vows, which I think was just an outlet for the relief I felt knowing that my own tears were no where to be found. In retrospect, I’m quite surprised that Craig didn’t change his mind at that very moment.

AKA Stud Muffin

My brother turned fifteen this year. I haven’t written much about my brother on my blog, other than this one time. Because, let’s face it, when you are fifteen, is there anything that you would enjoy less than having your older sister write about you on the internet? Possibly a crater sized zit on your forehead, but that is the only other world-stopping thing that happens when you are a teenager.

If I did choose to write about my punk-ass brother, trust me, the material would be endless. The kid is something else. By something else, I mean something curiously ineffable and endlessly entertaining.

This is the kid who a couple of years ago, nonchalantly yelled to my grandmother in the kitchen, “Hey Barkeep! Pour me a scotch and water; hold the scotch.” He managed to utilize a word from the 16th century that most of us hadn’t heard of while cracking an obscure joke. I think he is also the only person who could get away with pseudo-insulting grandma. How is it that if anyone else did it, it would be outrageous, but with him it is hysterical?

The other day my mom sent me a picture of my brother and his prom date. Apparently he was asked to the prom by an upper classman, which is most assuredly a big deal. When I replied and asked my mom how prom went … if he had fun, etc. … she replied and said, “Yes, of course. Because, you know, he is the MUFFIN OF STUD.”

Not qualified for the job

I am convinced that Kate has an informant from the TIA Toddler Intelligence Agency that visits her in the night, performing intensive coaching in the Art of Parental Manipulation. I’m also investigating the possibility that they’ve been piping in the webinar at daycare on a regular basis. There is no other explanation; a three-year old cannot come up with such well designed tricks executed to perfection. If so, then I think someone needs to be pouring money into researching the fact that we might possibly be born as smart as we will ever be, then get stupider as we age. There is something about a three-year old outwitting their parent that just isn’t right. And no Craig, it has nothing to do with the fact that I am blonde.

The other day at lunch, my friend Jodi and I were marveling at just how smart and coy Kate and Jenna both are at this stage. Long gone are the expected tactics of MOM SAID NO, SO I WILL JUST ASK DAD. Oh no, this generation has version 5.0, upgraded for ultimate performance. They aren’t messing around with the staid and ancient tricks used by toddlers of days past.

On our way home one night this week, Kate and I were involved in a never-ending argument about whether or not she was going to play on her swing set when we got home. My answer continued to be NO. She approached this challenge with the vigor one might expect out of someone seeking to wrong every injustice of the world. She apparently thinks that “No” means “If I ask 500 more times and sneakily convince her that all signs point to playing outside, maybe she’ll say yes.”

Kate: Can we play outside for a little bit?
Me: No Kate, it’s already past your bedtime.
Kate: Just for 5 minutes.
Me: No Kate.
Kate: Just for 2 minutes.
Me: Nope Kate, we aren’t playing outside for any minutes.
Kate: Let’s feel the weather. I think it’s warm. It’s perfect for playing outside.
Me: Kate, it’s too late, we aren’t playing outside.
Kate: It’s not dark yet mom, we can play outside until the moon comes up.
Me: Kate, we are NOT playing outside.
Kate: Can we just go look at the swingset?
Me: No.

Silence.
The debate has ceased.
Victory?
Mom 1: Kate 259,897?
Not so fast.

As we are driving up the driveway, Kate catches a glimpse of her swing set in the backyard.

Kate: “MOM! MOM! MOM!”
Me: What Kate?
Kate: Someone took 3 of the trapeze bars from my playset. Three of them are gone. They are missing. They are all gone! (Insert dramatic back of the hand application to the forehead, indicating a near fainting moment.)
Me: What? No one stole your trapeze rings.
Kate: Yes, they did. Three of them are miss-iiiii-nnnngggg.
Me: They are not Kate, you can’t even see that far.
Kate: I think we need to go back there and look, just for 2 minutes …

What have I gotten myself into? I’m not sure who has been slipping this kid pointers, but I have them on a Most Wanted Poster. I have vivid flashbacks of our Pediatrician pegging her for a career in the White House at her 2 year check-up. I of course attributed that complement to her wit, brilliance, and intellect. At the time, I didn't realize she might of actually been foreshadowing the hidden skills of manipulation and lies that would make her much better suited for politics.

Baby Take a Bow

This past weekend was catalogued under the WEEKEND OF THE NEVER-ENDING DANCE RECTIAL in my mental library. A few months ago, Kate’s dance instructor nonchalantly asked if Kate would be participating in the spring recital. Upon realizing that all of the children in Kate’s class were participating, it was apparent that my choice was limited. Add to that the costume measuring, the practicing, and the incessant chatter about the recital, and there was no way I was going to sneak our lack of participation past Kate. Before I knew what I was doing, I opened my mouth and answered in the affirmative. All the while, my brain was screaming, wondering what on earth I had just agreed to do.

I must admit, I had no idea what I was in for, other than the fact that I had likely agreed to something I later would regret. That simple yes signed me up for approximately $125 in costume charges, recital fees, and tickets. It also gave me the desirable opportunity to wrangle a toddler into full costume and dedicate a Saturday in April to pictures; individual and group pictures nonetheless. It silently colluded to ensure I would pay an additional $30 for said pictures. Even more exciting was the fact that it saved me from having to plan anything to do over Mother’s Day weekend. Dress rehearsal Saturday at 10:00 a.m. (check), Recital from 5:45-8:30 on Saturday night (check), and Recital again Sunday from 1:45-4:30 (check). What was even lovelier was that the aforementioned schedule meant that darling Kate missed nap on Saturday, went to bed late that same evening, and then missed nap on Sunday. You couldn’t pay me enough money to voluntarily allow that to happen. Ever.



The ultimate proverbial icing on the cake? Getting the privilege to be “parent volunteer” for Kate’s class on Sunday. Translation: Spending the 90 minutes before show time responsible for 5 little beings between the ages of 3 and 4. Leading the “train” of tutu wearing, slightly uncoordinated children, in slippery ballerina shoes up and down at least 9 flights of stairs. Smiling graciously at the uncooperative little child whose sole mission seemed to be doing exactly the opposite of what I said, all the while saying, “You AREN’T my mom.” I was quite proud of the fact that I resisted turning around and yelling “THANKFULLY!” All of that was possibly overshadowed by the fact that for the first time in a long time, the title of THAT KID in the group was not assigned to Miss Kate.


This photo pretty much sums up the entire experience. You have three kids sort of doing what they are supposed to be doing. Then you have “the kid” second from left. Then you have my kid, the Dancing Queen, busting a move on the far left. Spec-freaking-tacular!

I could make about a weeks worth of blog posts out of the dance extravaganza, but I won’t. Mostly because I don’t have the stamina to continue to reflect on it all week. I did learn some interesting things over the course of the weekend though that I can’t resist sharing:

When you have strategically mastered getting all 5 toddlers down three flights of stairs into the dressing room in the basement, 4 of the 5 will need to use the bathroom.

The bathroom of the recital hall requires you to go up a flight of stairs, through a narrow 24” hallway WITHOUT LIGHTS running behind the stage, then up another flight of stairs to a single stall bathroom.

Is someone pouring me a drink yet?

Whoever made costumes for toddlers that require taking the entire contraption off to use the bathroom should be required to make the above mentioned hike, then undress and redress four unruly children. Bonus points will be added for not swearing, not losing a child, ensuring no serious injuries occur from falls down the stairs, and making it back to the dressing room before their act is scheduled to go.

Wearing cute heels is not a good idea. Additionally, an extra application of deoderant is advised.

When the instructions tell you to put stage make-up on your kid and you don't, you will certainly receive suspecting looks for your apparent disgregard of the art of dance. Refraining from mentioning the obvious concern about applying make-up to a 3-year old should be avoided in the sea of make-up cladded toddlers and their blush-wielding mothers. Perhaps I am suffering some PTSD from the whole Jon Benet thing.

Bartender, I need a refill.

If you are ever asked to be a dance-recital parent volunteer, it is absolutely worth the money to pay someone else to do it for you.



Watching kids in tutus do haphazard somersaults is about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.



Just when you think the whole thing was for naught, your daughter will conclude the recital by bowing with her class. Instead of existing stage right, she’ll stop, dramatically close her eyes and take one sweeping, solitary bow. There we go, back to earning the title of THAT KID.

Confession: I am a comment whore

I love nothing more than getting comments on the posts that I write. That is absolutely counterintuitive to my typical self, which seeks to avoid any recognition or feedback on anything that I do. I am one of those people who would almost forgo the raise associated with my annual performance review if it meant that I didn’t have to sit there and suffer through a review. You know, one filled with horrible torture, like GREAT JOB and ROLE MODEL and SUCCESS. Yeah, I’ve got issues. So, it is slightly disconcerting that I enjoy comments on my blog so much.

Where is Freud when you need him? Let’s be honest, what good would Freud be anyway? We can all just assume that somehow it is related to repressed memories from childhood, right? Or maybe in some previous life I was a motivational speaker who was heckled off the stage?

Anyway, I have to admit, I am lousy at leaving comments. I just am. I read a laundry-list of great blogs every day. Rarely do I leave a comment. I am not sure why. Sometimes I can’t think of anything clever. Othertimes I am on my phone, which doesn’t allow comment posts. Other times, I can’t quite figure how to disguise that pop-up window on my browser to look like work. You know, since I am at work and all.

That does not mean that I do not love certain blogs, or certain posts. I like some blogs so much that my day wouldn’t quite be the same without them. First of all, I love to read. Second of all, I love to laugh. Third, I love things that are well written. I’ve been a reading junkie all of my life; you know, the kid that would wake up on a Saturday morning and read in my room. Is someone searching for my pocket protector? I seem to have misplaced it along with my TI-83. Blogs are so much better though, because in most cases, they don’t end. Let’s be honest, how annoying is it to find yourself totally invested in a book, the storyline, the characters, then it is over. O-V-E-R, over. Are you kidding me? I am totally wrapped up in their life and they are gone. Poof.

What, are you thinking that requires another psychoanalysis? I can’t trust you people with any secrets, can I?

My point? I swear, I have a point. My point is that while I don’t comment often, I have many bloggers I love and many posts that make my day. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve added a great little section over on the right side of my blog to highlight links that I love. It's right there above my godawful mug shot. I encourage you to check each of them out when I add a new link. I won’t disappoint, I swear. If I do, then maybe your taste is in question. I'm just sayin'

If you ever have a post of your own, or someone else’s that you’d like me to check out, email me at lyndsay@iusedtobewitty.com, or leave me a comment. It's my one-cheek (half-assed) way of making up for my comment-delinquency. I pinky-swear to read all of your recommendations. I’ve got to warn you though, I am pretty damn picky.

Okay, I’ve sufficiently avoided homework long enough, back to the grind!

When all else fails

My name is Lyndsay and I am an anti-exercise-aholic. Even thinking about exercise makes my stomach churn and my feet cement themselves to the ground in protest. I’ve tried very unsuccessfully to engage in some degree of physical activity numerous times over the past few years. I just don’t think I have it in my genetic make-up. In fact, there are few things I find less enjoyable than exercise. I swear my body hates exercise too. Historically, when I have made an attempt to exercise, it rebukes by failing to yield ANY results and taunts me with hallucinations of other ways I could be spending that time. One time last year, my body laughed at me and gained weight when I tried to exercise. Uninformed people try to say that is because your body is gaining muscle. I know better, it is my body telling me hard work, sweat, and sore muscles won’t be tolerated.

This year, I’ve tried to look at exercise in a different way. Yes, I tried. However, it still sucks. It is still work. It is still about as much fun as a lobotomy. However, there is something about creeping towards 30 that makes your metabolism rebel. I think mine naps most of the time, waking up to half-heartedly engage in work a few measly hours of the day. Then there is the whole conundrum of the post pregnancy stomach. The last three years of threatening it, ignoring it, and hoping wishful thinking would abolish it have not been fruitful. That mind over matter crap doesn’t deserve the hype it gets. The trifecta of this dilemma came in the form of an angry right hip. Yes, at 29 I have a hip problem. I am not sure what I did to make it so uncooperative. I am expecting the Red Hat Society invitation in the mail any day. So, here I sit out of shape, with a beer belly stomach, and a wobbly right hip, finding myself in the middle of a Onethird Life Crisis.

So, I did what any insane, self-punishing, irrational person who hates exercise would do. I hired a personal trainer. I committed to an eight-week program. I paid for all eight-weeks in advance. For those of you wondering if I’ve lost my mind, I think we can enter this decision into evidence as Exhibit A (or possibly Z if any of you are keeping track). Do you think they have a non-exercise related program? I'm going to try to enroll in that one.

I am thinking my typical axiom of needing to live up to other people’s expectations will return the benefit to me with this approach. What do you think?

RU4Real? WTH? SOS!

Last week, Craig nonchalantly informed me that he could no longer use his cell phone for texting. He has had a work cell phone for almost as long as I can remember, so much so that I sometimes forget it isn’t technically his. Apparently they’ve switched business plans and the new plan does not offer free texting. I am not sure why the regression, it is sort of like sending your DSL back because you’d prefer that good ole’ dial up connection.

When he shared this earth shattering news, I shrugged, asked why, and then moved on. Initially I did not recognize the impending crisis. Since that time, I’ve changed my mind and have determined that it is cruel and unusual punishment and I should be seeking damages for restricting me to such barbaric means of communication. Texting provides an easy way to ask a simple question, without all of the unnecessary pleasantries expected in a phone call. Texting is the perfect accompaniment to any multi-taskers agenda. I mean, how else can you sit in a meeting and make dinner plans? How else do you keep in contact with a significant other who often isn’t in the same zip code? How else do you delegate tasks to an unsuspecting husband who can't debate very well via text?

Our texts are never-ending, but generally go something like this:

You getting Kate, or I?
Me.

What’s for dinner?
Dunno. Go somewhere?
Yes.

Have you left yet?
Yes, be there in 45.
K, see u there.

I think I am going to die.
Call 911 before you do.
But I can’t lift the phone to my ear.
Bummer.

Swine flu feeling better?
No.
Oh, go back to bed.

In a matter of two or three texts, we were able to coordinate travel arrangements for our toddler, finalize dinner plans, synchronize our schedules to arrive home together, save my life after a day at the gym, and offer treatment and remedy for a pandemic flu. Does life get any better than that? So, instead of the benefit of these micro-conversations, designed to minimize interruption and formalities, we have regressed to phone conversations.

{Ring, ring, ring}

CRAIG: Hello
ME: Hi, how are you? I don’t really have time to listen to your answer, but I am supposed to ask, right?
CRAIG: Fine, how are you? I don’t really care, I need to get back to work, but you asked, so I’ll ask.
ME: What are you doing? Seriously, could I be asking a more ridiculous question?
CRAIG: Working. She is blonde. She called me at work, what does she think I am doing at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning. What are you doing?
ME: Um, working. Did he really just ask me that question? How annoying is this?
CRAIG: So, what’s up? Why is she calling me, my boss is standing here waiting for me, I’m hoping this is important.
ME: When are you coming home this week, Thursday or Friday? Don't act irritated I called, I am the one handling life here without any assistance from you thankyouverymuch.
CRAIG: Thursday I think. Couldn’t this have waited until later?
ME: Okay, thanks. Is it acceptable to hang up now, or do I need to proceed with some additional conversation?
CRAIG: Okay, loveya, bye.

I much preferred:

Home Thursday or Friday?
Thursday I think.
Cool, call u later.

I’m revolting, boycotting the text-ban. I don’t think I am going to survive this torture.

Dear Lyndsay ...

Today’s guest post is written by the lovely and brilliant Ann, from Ann’s Rants. I’ve been a regular reader of Ann’s blog since our blogs were in their infancy. She is an outstanding writer and has humor that rivals anyone else out there in bloggyland. If you haven’t visited Ann’s blog before, I highly recommend that you immediately do. Side note: I don’t say that about too many blogs, do I? Besides, as an EOB (Equally Opportunity Blogger), I have an obligation to make sure that diversity efforts are met here at I Used to be Witty. Let’s see, Ann is Jewish (check!) and she’s from Wisconsin (check!), which I think must apply somewhere in my Affirmative Action Plan. Take it away Ann…

Dear Lyndsay,

I need to schedule another HR consultation. The situation grows increasingly dire with each passing day. I’m speaking of inappropriate language, touching, and even nudity. I’m speaking of blatant insubordination, and untenable working conditions. As per your earlier instructions, I began documenting the offenses. Yet, as quickly as I administer warnings, new more egregious offenses occur. Our desperately-awaited and newfound springtime weather—allowing for open doors and windows—only exacerbates the humiliation I endure. Take a look at these incriminating pieces of evidence:

INDECENT EXPOSURE: 9am Two-Year-Old disrobed completely, diaper-flung in my general direction, and ran out the back door to “run da-round da-naked.”

SUGGESTIVE COMMENTS: Naked Two-Year-Old flaunts his miniature body, running around the backyard with crayon in hand, fixing things and screaming to our neighbors “I like to screw” “I screwing, Mommy!”

INAPPROPRIATE TOUCHING: Bathtime toes-in-butts situation completely out of control, as is inappropriate peeing-in-bath behavior demonstrated by both Two and Five-Year-Old. This also causes health concerns as purposeful bath-water-ingestion levels rise, despite my dire warnings of “ucky.”

Frequent random poking and grabbing of “Mommy’s Butt” (and butt refers to a highly generalized area) should be noted.

VANDALISM is rampant around the toilet area as a result of pee tagging. When confronted, Five-Year-Old offers a weak explanation that “this happens if you close your eyes while peeing” And Two-Year-Old’s defense? He wants to stand and deliver, without handling the goods. So to speak.

Before I go on, I should share that your webseminar “Poop talk: When Defecation is The Conversation” proved effective. I highly recommend it to your other clients. We established dinnertime as a “Poop-Talk-Free (PTF) Zone,” and that five minutes of our day remains blissfully PTF! I, however, am still suffer symptoms of PTD (Poop Talk Disorder) as is apparent when I unselfconsciously discuss poop consistency in mixed company, and occasionally yell ‘POOPYHEAD’ in a fit of rage. I’m working on it.

INSUBOORDINATION: As much as 1-2-3 Magic (also known as One-Two-Fwee Magic) seems perceptibly magical, when taunted with counting from my child-subordinates it creates a hostile environment. Or makes me laugh, rendering the whole process completely ineffective.

HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT: Lastly, Two-Year-Old now employs a torture tactic long-banned under the Geneva Convention—REPETATIVE RAFFI. “Willabee Wallabee Woo” is directly responsible for a substantial increase in insurance copays, as I now require weekly therapy sessions and shock therapy. When coupled with nap-avoidance (creating a 15 hour day without breaks), REPETATIVE RAFFI creates a cruel and unusual workplace.

Lyndsay, Please advise. Bring your HAZMAT suit and a stiff drink.

Fondly,
Ann

Ann, you are fantastic. I'm packing the HAZMAT suit, but I am leaving the drinks to you. Last time I tried to board a plane with that much alcohol, I ended up having to drink all but the 1 oz. that was allowed on the plane. I think we could turn this next lesson into a webinar; the demands for HR: KICK-ASS MOM VERSION are growly rapidly.

Getting back on track

My blog has been whining and crying this week. Apparently it feels neglected. I’ve tried consoling it and apologizing for my negligence. I’ve expressed my commitment to my blog by explaining that my intentions have been to post more frequently and increase our quality time together. I don’t think my blog is buying it. It said something about, “the little boy who cried wolf,” or some nonsense like that. I enjoy writing immensely and I do need to make time for it. Do you hear that blog? I’m talking to you. Writing is my outlet, my creative indulgence and once again I’ll vow to try to get back on track.

The end of the semester is wrapping up, which means in four more days I am done teaching for the semester. Remember being a student and how stressful the end of the semester was? Everything was due at once (likely because you had not spent anytime working on the projects the first 15 weeks of the semester) and exams were imminent. I’d like to inform you that the end of the semester really isn’t any easier when you are the professor. Someone has to grade all that shit. So, take the work you completed as a student and multiply it by 37, then give it to the professor in one day. For good measure, send an email or two-dozen in the following days to inquire about when you can expect your grade so you know how hard you have to study/not study for the final exam. I think the only feasible answer is outsourcing. Next semester I am going to advertise in India for a grading assistant. Brilliant.

On top of that, Craig has decided it is an opportune time to be sick. A sick husband is comparable to a sick child times 500. I spent the initial part of the week calling him SWINE FLU, which I found humorous, despite the fact that he did not. Humor may be my coping mechanism. The Swine Flu joke suddenly became not quite so funny on Wednesday night when he ended up in the ER, incidentally being tested for Swine Flu. Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. Thankfully, no Swine Flu here, just a horrendous case of the Non-Swine-Flu, which is still wreaking havoc on him four days later. Craig has been banished to the bedroom, which he does not wholeheartedly appreciate. I have resisted the urge to tell him that he is fortunate that I am even letting him stay in the house. I would willingly pay hundreds of dollars to ship him to a hotel just to ensure that Kate and I don’t contract whatever it is that he’s harboring. I’ve barely recovered from her last bout of sickness and a sudden repeat performance would either land me in the crazy house, or send me screaming into the night. What did I do to deserve this chaos? I swear, I haven’t been kicking any puppies.

I almost feel compelled to mention that I must have an immune system made of steel. I also almost feel compelled to point out just how fortunate I am to remain healthy while everyone else in my household seems to be in competition for winning the PERSON WHO HAS THE WORST SICKNESS contest. But, I won’t. Because Karma would certainly guarantee that I paid the price for that. I’ve got way too much to do right now. Besides that, I just made another commitment to my blog and I don’t want to be dealing with another break-up so soon.