New Year…Wider Butt

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Well 2019 is off and running and it’s already looking better than that miserable 2018.  For starters, Mama’s back to work full-time. (Which is good because, though it was fun for a few months, I’m not a good stay-at-home mom and we’re not near a tax bracket that allows me to take on ‘lady of leisure’ as a career choice.) I’ve kicked the sugar monkey off my back for a couple weeks so far, reintroduced kale into our diet (much to the dismay of my family) took the stationary bike out of storage and I’ve managed to exercise twice. (I do not have to disclose how long each of those sessions lasted.) I’m not usually a diet resolution kind of gal as I’m not a fan of failure but after a year from hell filled with a cross-country move, a shift in old lady hormones and a banged up foot that left me gimpy and in a boot for months, my ass spread needed immediate attention. (I also have a 5 year old whose height hovers around butt-level and reminds me daily in his little lisp that “Mom, I wuv your big, fat butt.” Gee, thanks kid.)

So as the clock struck midnight on December 31, I decided to made some changes. No more watching My 600 Pound Life to feel better about myself. No more excuses using the bum foot (It’s not going away until I have surgery over the summer so suck it up woman.) No more eating like an adolescent boy and basically getting back to the way I lived life before all hell broke loose last year. While I have been busily shifting gears to return to my ongoing quest for a Tyra Banks bod, (I won’t let any 10” height difference dissuade me damn it.), I also realized it important to take a minute to pat myself on the back for having survived last year.

I dreaded the start of 2018. I knew that as soon as Ryan Seacress dropped the ball and the champagne was spilled, it was game on. (Full disclosure: I seldom see midnight on New Years’ Eve but you get the gist.) The start of 2018 meant boxes needed packed, houses needed bought and sold, jobs needed left and really crappy decisions needed to be made. The new year meant that the process of relocating once again was upon us and that totally sucked.

In case you missed it (or ICYM as the kids say. I just figured that out recently because after years in the bible belt I automatically assumed the CYM part stood for Christian Youth Ministry. This heathen’s scars linger.) let me recap our 2018:

January –

  • Made the official decision to accept my husband, the Turk’s, relocation from Indianapolis to Boston – making it relocation #8 for our 10 year old. (Yes, he has a therapy fund.)

February –

  • Began the horrific task of prepping a fixer-upper that wasn’t quite fixed-up, to sell. (ie-undoing, redoing and finishing The Turk’s “projects”)

March –

  • Fought off a relocation-mandated spousal job counselor who called daily to remind me to begin my job hunt in Massachusetts. (Yo girl, how ‘bout we find a home first?)
  • Broke the news to my students I was abandoning them.
  • Celebrated 2 family birthdays.
  • Began the horrors of packing up a family of 4.

April –

  • Headed to Boston to house hunt with the world’s worst realtor.
  • Considered buying a house until we noticed a prison in its backyard.
  • Upon returning home, fired the world’s worst realtor.
  • Got new a realtor.
  • Sent the Turk back out to “Just buy a damn house. I don’t care where, I don’t care what – just buy us a damn house!”
  • Bought a house in Massachusetts and sold a house in Indiana on the same day. (Booyah.)

May –

  • Did the 700 pages of papers necessary to sell a house.
  • Did the 800 pages of papers necessary to buy a house.
  • Taught the final month of school, including exams and wrote 60-plus grade reports.
  • Bought homeowners insurance on a house I’d never seen. (Thanks Zillow)
  • Began a half-assed job search after excessive pressure from the pushy relocation-mandated spousal job counselor.
  • Organized packers, movers, moving vans, car carriers, closing dates on both homes, travel accommodations and all those ridiculous things you have to do to buy and sell homes, pack up a life and schlep halfway across the country.
  • Said good-byes.
  • Quit my job.
  • Questioned my sanity. Repeatedly

June –

  • Closed on two different houses 3 days apart.
  • Drove from Indiana to Massachusetts with two kids, a Turk and a surly cat.
  • Waited on a moving van.
  • Spent hours on the phone trying to locate said moving van.
  • Finally unpacked new house.
  • Dealt with ridiculous power issues at new house and forged a wonderful bond with the linemen from the power company. (This will come in handy during the storm this weekend.)

July –

  • Finally sat down. On the beach. Which is 15 minutes from my house.

August –

  • Ate copious amounts of seafood in honor of my new homeland.
  • Took my little half-breeds to frolick on the beach on the reg.
  • Threw myself into the new culture through PeeWee football.

September –

  • Sent my children to school and shared the weirdest moment of silence ever.
  • Spent every other moment taking kids to football.

October-

  • Netflixed and chilled.
  • More football.
  • Tried to decide what to be when I grow up.
  • Became painfully aware that while I was distracted with relocation, my ass had grown substantially.
  • Decided to start running again in an attempt to rein in my ample backside.

November –

  • Jacked up my foot trying to reduce my substantial ass and was sentenced to a boot for the next two months.
  • Decided it was time to actually find a job.
  • Mourned because I couldn’t find a job.
  • Celebrated the end of the longest PeeWee football season known to mother-kind.
  • Lamented my grande gluteus maximus from my gimpy position.

December –

  • Bit the bullet and took up substitute teaching.
  • Realized I already knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’m a teacher. That’s what I do.
  • Got a job teaching.

As you can see, it was a hell of a year. I needed a nap and a cocktail after just recalling it all. If gaining 15-20 pounds was what I needed to survive that crap show, then that’s a reasonable trade-off. I’ll give this whole new lifestyle a change for a few more weeks and if we don’t agree then no harm no foul. I’m just as feisty with a fat butt and I might need those extra pounds to get me through my first New England winter. One thing is for certain – I have no intention to relive a year like that ever again. (Hear that Turk? I’m not relocating again…unless…they show the big bucks…)

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January, You’re Dead To Me

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I’m not a fan of January. I’ve tried over forty of them and have yet to find any redeeming qualities in a single one. They’re gray, depressing, boring and butt numbing cold. (Global warming, you suck.) I’ve given this one a solid try but I see it’s just like all the other Januarys and next week after the presidential inauguration, its suckage is just going to ramp up to epic levels. So I’ve made an executive decision. I’m not going to do January this year. I’m going to hide out until it’s over. Harsh? Drastic? Perhaps, but that’s how I roll. January, you’re dead to me.

I’m going into my pillow fort and I will not come out until January is safely passed. And if February, doesn’t start off strong I’m skipping that too. I’ve got enough supplies to stay in my pillow fort until March. (I’m a planner and stockpiler, yet still a safe distance from doomsday prepper.) I’ve decided I have no choice but to take drastic measures and thankfully, my Mediterranean blooded Turk is right with me on this one. (Which is great because usually in situations such as these he just gives me the side eye and mutters about my instability in Turkish.)

I’m sorry kids, but you are on your own for the next few weeks because neither of your parents can do January anymore.

I know, it may seem harsh to turn over self-survival to a guy who has not yet mastered the concept that pooping should occur in the toilet and not in his pants and his brother who hasn’t gotten past the sixes on the multiplication tables, but I don’t see any other way. January is too much and we as parents just… can’t.

Simply put, the Turk is genetically incapable of cold weather. His blood is thin and according to him, solidifies into ice crystals the moment temps drop below 40 degrees. My dear husband hunches like a turtle somewhere in mid-November and does not stand straight again until April. It’s been hard on him since he moved to this country but now that he is on the other side of 40, we have to worry more about the old man. I’d hate for him to stroke out due to freezing temps. (Though he does have stellar life insurance that would provide my children and I with a bungalow in a warmer climate…no…no…that thinking is wrong!)

As for me, I understand that due to my ample supply of body fat you might wonder why I am incapable of dealing with the cold. I don’t get it either but I’m old and old people have these issues. The cold makes me surly and slug-like and though I was able to combat it in my youth, with the combination of my advanced age and the impending doom coming with the January 20th presidential inauguration, this year I simply haven’t the will.

Kids, if you need to go anywhere, I’d suggest you pile a few of your father’s old engineering books on the seat of the car (they’re in Turkish and thus extra bulky) and give it a go. Number One Son, you should be able to see over the steering wheel while your brother Nugget navigates from the safety of his car seat. Just practice a few times around the block before you hit the open road. If anyone questions you, cite a medical condition for your small stature then accuse them of judgmental intolerance. That should get any pesky do-gooders off your back. (If that doesn’t work, let Nugget and his newly developed canine-calibur biting skills handle things.)  

If anyone needs us, I’ll be where I’ve been since January 1: with the cat in the barcalounger, huddled under my grandma’s old quilt, binge watching Stranger Things on my IPad using the kids headphones to block out the world and dreaming of finding a portal to a warmer dimension.

The Turk will be where he’s been since January 1 as well: in Number One’s new beanbag chair, three feet in front of the fireplace with his little Turkish tootsies baking in a roaring fire.

January, it’s over for us and this time, it’s definitely you, not me.

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I’d Like To Call a Do-Over

January

New Year, new you right? Well we’re now six days into the new year and it seems the new me is just as snarky, wrinkled and cellulite riddled as the old one. So much for New Year’s miracles.

I don’t do resolutions anymore because I not a big fan of self-inflicted failure. I’m sure somewhere there is scientific evidence to prove that 99.9% of all New Year’s resolutions end in disappointment. Why become a statistic, I say. Instead of resolutions, I just call a do-over. You know, like in elementary school when you were playing kickball but missed the ball and called for a do-over so you could try again. What, that never happened to you? Whatever Pele. (Full disclosure: as an un-athletic chubby kid, without the do-over, I’d have been nothing.) At Jefferson Elementary in 1979, a do-over was a totally legit way to own your screw-up and try again with no condemnation. If it was good enough for the 3rd grade kickball field, it’s good enough for adulthood.

Last year, my do-overs were amazing. I started 2015 with a bang. I kicked that diet soda monkey off my back and for like one whole week I became one of those smug broads that say, “Oh I don’t eat refined sugars.” Ok, so the sugar thing was a bust but I did well with others. I drank water like a camel about to hit the Silk Road and logged enough daily steps to make Jack LaLanne proud. In the evenings I read from actual books instead of cringing at stupid Facebook posts or creepin’ around Pinterest like a fat girl looking for a cake recipe and my positive outlook was actually positive. Nothing could stop me, except February.

By week five of 2015, being Positive Polly and swallowing my smart assed brilliance was giving me heartburn, but I was doing pretty well on everything else. By March I was tired of books and really needed the kind of smut that only Facebook can provide. By April I’d decided I’d been clean long enough and would be safe checking in on Pinterest for new springtime meal ideas. Not so. I was sucked back in like a junkie in a back alley. By May the Coke Zero monkey climbed on for a piggyback ride again and by June when the Nugget’s Pandora’s box of health-problem- sprang open, I just said – screw it all and let the peanut clusters flow with wild abandon.

The second half of 2015 all bets were off as it was a blur of doctors, audiologists, therapists, hospitals, good news, bad news, and lots and lots of wait and sees (And if you’ve ever had a kid with issues, wait and sees suck the most.) But now as we embark on 2016, his kidney is working as expected, though it’s one of the wait and sees. He’s adjusting well to his hearing aid and while our biggest wait and see is in the speech arena, his ASL skills are hard core amazing so I finally feel like maybe, just maybe I can call a do-over and do some things for me.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not giving up booze or signing up for Zumba or any nonsense like that. With age comes wisdom and I’ll be 44 years wise in 2016 so I no longer have to wow anyone with my firm buns. (Sorry Turk, but there is just as much love in these flabby buns.) I’m also wise enough to know that my evening Merlot is the only thing that stands between me and a possible rap sheet. (Humanity is stupid and coping is hard. Red Starbucks cups, Donald Trump, need I continue?)

No, the universe gave me a hard-core schoolin’ on the subjects of priorities and expectations in 2015 so as for my 2016 do-overs, I’m keepin’ ’em real.

This time around I’m not kicking sugar, just cutting back. I spent three days sans sugar and by day three my family began dangling peanut clusters and Tootsie Pops over my head in the hopes I’d bite and end their misery. I might have a problem, but we’ll start small.

I’ll still keep trying to hit my Jack LaLanne level step counts but I’m think it’s time to add some upper body work too. Last night when I was waving at the Nugget upstairs my upper arms continued to wave until he made it all the way down the stairs at toddler speed. I haven’t been sleeveless since 2006 and clearly things have taken a bad turn in those years. Ain’t nobody wanna see that.

If all goes well in the above do-overs I’ll meet my ‘drop a few pounds’ do-over. I’m not a fool that saddles myself with weight loss goals in numbers. No, I just want to put a little more distance between me and a me that might need to ride a scooter to grocery shop.

With a few new career plans, a goal to work harder to reach ASL fluency to keep up with the Nugget, oh and that 5K for deaf and hard of hearing kids that I committed to running in April, that’s it for my 2016 do-overs. (Stay tuned for updates on the 5K. Though I was once a runner, that was 30 pounds, a geriatric childbirth and one knee surgery ago so I predict this will end with a tear-fueled crawl across the finish line but at least it will be a dramatically memorable event.)

So you see, as we cruise into 2016 I’m resolving nothing. I’m committing to nothing. I’m just going to try again. Sometimes, you need to do that when balls are coming at you faster than you can handle. Why beat yourself up? Just call a do-over and try again.