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.