May 4, 2006

Revenge (of the work out and other stuff)

It is amazing that I am even attempting to write a post today.  Why?  Well, writing a post requires me to lift my lap top up, and move my arms.  Both of these activities are causing some serious pain today.  You know that work out?  The one that I did for about 15 minutes?  The one that involved push-ups?  Well, if I didn’t know any better, I would think I was in having a heart attack because my chest is KILLING me today, along with the arms. 

Doing that work out didn’t feel like a big deal when I was in the process.  The encouraging thing is that the work out didn’t really feel like anything and I’m sore, which means it was doing something it was supposed to be doing and I didn’t have to feel the pain. . . at least not immediately.   Lil C is taunting me because deep down she KNOWS I hurt.  She is even more determined than usual to stand on my lap and jump, jump, jump, jump, oh, and jump.  It is causing some serious discomfort today and I’m dreading tomorrow, because the second day is ALWAYS worse than the first day after a work out. 

Despite the fact that I can hardly move my upper body, I was tempted to use my martial arts for revenge today.  My family and I were taking a walk.  As Lil C and I were crossing the street, a car driven by a teenager came around a 20 mph corner at about 60 mph.  He had to skid to a stop.  He would have hit us had I not stopped in my tracks and pulled the stroller backwards.  And then, my daughters got a lesson in profanity like no other.  My husband, who had already crossed the street, started.  After my heart moved down from the nice little nook in my throat, I joined in as well.  Their car windows were open.  I know they heard every word.  They also heard the landscaper a half block down the street from where we were who also gave them an earful. 

Had the boys retorted in any way, shape or form, I seriously think I would have dragged the driver out of his window and practiced some kata.  I was SO upset.  Fortunately, I think the driver was a little shaken himself; and I sincerely hope that our little incident and subsequent name-calling extravaganza made him think a little about slowing down.  I came home from the walk and fired off an exasperated email to our township police department who I’m hoping will do something about this very dangerous street. 

I have never wanted to use what I’ve learned at karate for anything other than to protect myself and my children.  I’m not the type of person to walk around and say things like, "I could kick your you-know-what."  I am not an instigator in the physical sense; Never have been-never will be.  But, in my (what seems to be to teenagers) old age, I have often fantasized about teaching a teenager (or anybody acting like one) a lesson or two, especially the ones who drive across store parking lots like the lines are there as merely a suggestion.  Becoming a Mother opens and enlarges your heart; but it also enrages your temper against those who might do potential harm to your off-spring. 

May 3, 2006

Martial Arts workout and my (poorly) adapted version

May 1, 2006

It’s in the genes

From the very moment we found out each of our baby daughter’s were on their way, we started thinking about who she would look like, what she would be like, and most importantly, whose nose she would have.  There was no question that our girls would be born with blue eyes, but both of our daughters definitely got my eye color(darker blue) and shape.   Personality begins to show itself after a few months.  We always thought Big I was a fairly low maintenance baby until we had Lil C who is the most laid back child on the face of the Earth.  Big I required miles worth of bouncing while walking to get her to sleep.  Lil C, when tired, requires only the "twi" from the song "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and she’s out like a light. 

Other traits are more likely learned.  Big I’s fear of bugs probably comes from the fact that every time there is a bug in the house, Daddy is called to deal with it.  Mommy wants no part of that whole scenario.  Eye rolling seems to be a learned behavior too; and unfortunately I am also responsible for that lovely trait.  Over the last few months though, it has become very clear that Big I has inherited something else wonderful from her mother. 

Apparently, being a clutz is in the genes.  Let me start by saying that I am one of those people who can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time.  Yes, I can.  And, when I was a teenager in jazz dance class I learned this thing where one arm goes up and down while the other arm goes up, out and then down and I mastered it, faster than anyone else I know.  Obviously I do not suffer from a complete and utter lack of coordination.  It seems to be more related to the inability to pay attention when it matters. 

Take my first date with my husband for example.  We were walking on a lovely tree-lined street on our way to a movie theater.  We were sharing little niceties and getting to know each other, when a tree branch rudely smacked me in the forehead Wizard of Oz style.  It practically gave me whiplash.  It was a great laugh for my husband and remains so to this day.  At the time, it wasn’t so funny for me.  My forehead was a little red and the worst part was my bruised ego.  It was a first date after all, and I REALLY liked the guy.  Obviously, things worked out considering he’s been my husband for going on eight years, but still I could have done without the little smack back to reality.

Consider also, what happened to me a few months ago.  I had just left a doctor’s office building after an appointment and was descending a set of about six steps down to the parking lot.  A cold swift wind blew my hair in front of my face and I missed a step.  I came down hard on my straight right leg, which sent me catapulting forward.  I stomped my left foot out in an attempt to save myself the fall, but the momentum that the top part of my body had was a bit too much.  It seemed to happen in slow motion, but when all was said and done, I was a good 6 feet away from the steps, having skidded across the parking lot on the palms of my hands, and knees before I finally came to an abrupt but welcome stop on my back.  My first reaction was to look around and see if anyone had noticed.  No one was around, so I took my time getting up, shook off the gravel, took inventory of the injuries and then began to collect my belongings that had been strewn about in the parking lot at two foot intervals representing the path of the fall. 

My little missteps provide great fun for others, but for me, they’re pretty embarrassing.  Now, it appears that Big I has the same problem.  She has always been an injury prone kid.  She is constantly bruised on the shins and occasionally on her back.  She likes to "dance" in the living room and by dance I mean combine dance moves with karate and gymnastics that usually end up shaking the living room floor if not the whole house. She inevitably ends up throwing herself on the floor somehow resulting in these mysterious bruises.  Her most famous saying as of late occurs after one of these dance falls where she stands straight up after a body twisting fall to declare, "I’m o.k." Mary Catherine Gallagher style. 

Last week we were all taking a walk.  Big I was doing her dance moves in the street which involve jumping, twisting, and spinning with karate knife hands.  Next thing you know, she has a knee full of gravel and a nice hole in her capri pants.  Not even a week later, the child runs out the front door, trips and goes crashing into the pavement, attaining yet another boo-boo to add to the knee collection.  Last year, she wiped out so badly while playing at a playground that my husband and I were both thanking Sam’s Club and that great first aid kit we had picked up just days before.  Otherwise, I really don’t know what we would have done.  Big I went to ballet class the next day looking like a warrior: scraped chin, lip, knees, hands, etc. etc. etc. 

I know she’s accident prone, but until today I didn’t realize how much so.  For Easter, we bought the girls those make your own stone kits.  We took advantage of Lil C’s long nap and started mixing it up outside.  We mixed the concrete-like material and poured it into the mold.  I had just finished getting all the air bubbles out, and leveling the material.  I just wanted to clean up the bucket and then we were going to start decorating.  I set the mold on the one step, out of the way, and told Big I to be careful she didn’t get anywhere near it.  No sooner than I turn around and pick up the hose nozzle, do I hear a feeble, "Mommy?"

I turn around to see Big I standing with the heel of one of her brand new $48 sandals firmly planted inside the mold.  Concrete is spilling onto our sidewalk and the bottom of Big I’s shoe is coated in it as well.  "OH MY GOD!" I screamed.  It had been only SECONDS since I had turned my back and given instructions to be careful.  I helped her remove her foot, cleaned off the sandal and went to work on the mold once again.  It all worked out, although our sidewalk has a little extra to it now. 

People are always looking at us like we’re overprotective lunatics when Big I is playing outside or with other kids because we are constantly reminding her to "be careful" and "watch where you’re going".  It’s for good reason though!  She has often been so involved in telling us something that she neglects to watch where she’s going and has ended up walking into doors, walls, etc.  It is obvious that she has inherited yet another lovely trait from her mother.  (I won’t even bother to go into detail about my encounter with a screen door a few years back.) 

Because of this, my husband and I have been questioning whether giving our baby the middle name "Grace" was really a good idea.   Only time will tell.

April 28, 2006

Why men don’t have home parties

It’s amazing really, what women do to each other and to themselves.  This is how it generally goes for me.  I get invited to a make-up party or some other kind of home party.  I immediately start to think of excuses for why not to go.  I suddenly become very "busy" if I’m invited in person.  If it’s an invitation in the mail, I audibly growl a bit as I look at the calendar and notice I’m free.  Then I contemplate for hours, usually days actually over whether or not I should go.  "I’ll have to buy something," I think.  "I don’t really need anything."  In the end, I usually convince myself to go.  The inner demons get the best of me by calling me anti-social, a home-body.  They tell me I need a "night out."  They tell me I’ll have fun. 

So, I go.  I sit there, in someone’s living room or dining room for hours, instead of having a nice dinner out, catching a movie, reading a book, playing with the girls, or catching up on sleep.  I listen to things that make me want to roll my eyes.  Because I’m polite, I don’t.  I peruse the catalog or product set-up and try to figure out how soon I can go home, and what product I can buy that will cause the least amount of damage to the American Express.  Which product will not make my husband roll his eyes? (I haven’t found one yet.) 

This week, at one of these parties, I found myself wondering why women do this to each other.  Each party has the same format.  "If you book a party, you get this. . .(oohs, aahs).  If you book a party, your hostess will get this. . . (oohs, aahs)."  The "hostess" either looks around the room with pleading eyes or ends up finding her belly button extremely interesting during this little exchange.  You start to rationalize each purchase.  You start to rationalize booking a party.  You want to be a good friend.  You don’t really need that foot scrub, but it’s. . . just. . .so. . . damn. . .tempting.  If you buy it, you can also pick a free product.  "My God, what if there’s free eye cream!  FREE EYE CREAM!"  It starts to get to you. 

Because of this scenario I once ended up hosting three make-up parties within one calendar year.  All my friends and family filled their bathroom cabinets up with stuff they’ll never use; and I collected free gift after free gift that I’ve never used, and finally, at the last party, with the help of my relatives, I said, "No."  I practically needed a 12 step program to do it; but "no" is a really great word, cathartic even.  NO.  It feels so good to say it ladies.  Say it with me. . . NO.  The fact that 99% of women can’t say this word when it comes to home parties is the reason why they are so successful.  These parties feed off of peer pressure and the female flaw: the complete and utter inability to say "No" to a friend. 

Can you imagine if men had these types of parties?  Let’s imagine a tool party for men.  Men gather on a Friday night during a basketball game or on a Sunday afternoon during a football game. (I know, I’ve pretty much lost you right here haven’t I?  See why this would NEVER happen.  Follow along though, just for fun.)  All the men gather in the living room of the host.  The party begins. 

"I’d like to welcome you to Dan’s house tonight for this wonderful and exciting Terrific Tools party.  I’d also like to thank Dan for asking me to be here tonight.  Because Dan has hosted this party, he’s going to receive a complimentary drill bit set." (Hands set to Dan.  Dan lights up with absolute JOY!  The other men stare at the bit set for a moment or two.  They start to think, "I want a bit set.")  The party continues.  "If you’d like a bit set, you can purchase one for $70 or (and pauses for effect). . . you can host your own party and receive one for FREE!"  The men all clap, ooh, and aah.  "Now if you decide to book a party tonight you will receive a goody bag, but I’m not telling what’s in it!  You’ll have to wait and find out!" The men stare at the goody bags and let their imaginations run WILD. The presenter moves on to discuss the products.

"Did you know that the tools that you currently have are complete crap?  Did you know that they are made from duck feces?  Did you know that just by touching them, you are potentially putting chemicals into your body from the duck feces?"  The men’s mouths drop open; they look at each other.  One mouths, "Oh my GOD!  Did you know that?  I didn’t know that!"  The presenter continues. 

"Our tools are made from 100% pure liquid magma.  Yes!  It’s true.  We drill in China to the center of the Earth.  We get the best liquid magma through a revolutionary system that extracts the most durable materials on all of the Earth.  We then put this liquid magma into the tool molds, and fly it in our specialized airplanes to the North Pole.  Once there, we allow the magma to cool, creating the most natural but durable products known to MAN."  (Men "ooh" and "ahh" some more.)  Twenty more minutes of magma nonsense continue, as the presenter takes the men through the tool catalog page by page explaining why these tools are "the best," and "like no other."  The men follow along, hanging on every word, even though they are all perfectly capable of reading on their own.

Before the ordering begins, the presenter gives the pitch on how GREAT it is to be a presenter.  They talk about all the money the men would be able to make by becoming a Terrific Tools party presenter.  They discuss how you could be driving a BRAND NEW H3 (once you sell $3 billion worth of tools and give up your first born child). Some of the men think, "Wow!  A Hummer.  I wish I could have a Hummer."  (O.k. well actually, this part could be true.)

At the end of the presentation, the men line up to give their orders to the presenter.  EVERY man has found something he has to have. The men line up in the dining room so as they wait, they can stuff their faces with cookies, sandwiches, and chips that have been neatly arranged by Dan.  Each man spends twice the amount he had thought he would.  Several of the men decide to have their own tool parties.  After all, that drill bit set is "so cool," and it’s a "great deal."  Dan is allowed to pick $200 worth of free products. He orders $600 worth of products.  The party is a success!

This is completely ludicrous, right?  But go back; insert any home marketed make-up name instead of tools, and change "men" to "women." Instead of duck feces, insert lamb sweat.  You’ve now got something that happens on a daily basis.  These parties don’t happen with men because men aren’t wired the way women are.  They don’t care if they say, "No" to a friend or relative. 

When a friend or relative calls and asks me to go shopping and I don’t want to. . . I go.  When a friend or relative calls a man and asks him to go shopping. . . oh, wait.  That one’s just stupid.  Like when does that EVER happen?  O.k. a wife asks her husband to go shopping.  He says, "No."  He doesn’t feel bad; he feels no guilt.  He won’t contemplate his nay-saying for the next week.  In fact, two minutes from the question, he won’t even remember his wife asked it! 

People have built empires around female peer pressure and the fact that we just can’t say "No."  I remember, after my third make-up party, the presenter asked me if she could ask me some questions.  I was exhausted from ordering three times the amount of stuff I’d told my husband I’d order.  I was spent from refusing to book another party.  I think I may have even sweat when she asked about yet another party, and I hedged and looked away before finally saying, "No."  So, of course, I was worn down.  I said she could ask me her questions. 

She started in on the whole "you would be great at this" junk.  She told me how! much! money! I could make!  Playing along, I asked her about the commission. She told me about the commission. This is when I finally woke up.  I work from home, and am commission only. I work as a recruiter, placing candidates in salaried jobs.  I make 70% commission, and not off the price of a lipstick.  I told her so.  In a smart tone, she asked how many hours I spent working.  I told her I worked extremely limited hours; and I could work with my daughter on my lap.  (I felt like I was gaining some momentum.) 

"Well," she stuttered, "you can do this on weeknights and weekends.  It’s ME time."  "That’s not ME time," I retorted.  "I work during day time hours and can work when my daughter is napping or playing with a friend.  I can also work on-line at 2 a.m. if I need to or want to, but best of all, I don’t have to work nearly as hard as you do and I can make more money than you.  I am NOT at all interested.  My job doesn’t require me to use family and friends to make a living."  I had her on her heels.  She’d been bugging me about doing this for a while now.  I was getting sick of it. 

She said, "But will your job buy you a car???" She thought she had me here.  She really did.  The look in her eye told me so. "Honey, I can buy myself an XJ8 if I want to, in any color I choose, if I work hard enough and make enough money."  (Let me just add here that I do not have an XJ8 and right now have no desire to work hard enough to even get one.  Even if I did have the money for one, I’d never buy one.  It’s more fun to drool over them and dream anyway.  "Dream cars" don’t require gas or tune ups.)  I asked her how much she made last year.  She told me. That was the end of our conversation.  That was also the end of my string of parties.  My friends and family were EXTREMELY grateful.  So was my husband. 

I wish I was wired more like a man when it comes to parties like these.  I wish I could say "No" to friends and family more easily.  I wish I didn’t have to have the guilt that follows saying "No" when it comes to this kind of stuff.  I also wish I didn’t have to now go through my cabinet full of cosmetics to throw out all the stuff that contains squirrel sweat and ladybug feet.  Being a woman is exhausting.

Before you start writing me hate mail about how "I am a home make-up presenter and I love it, and everybody I know loves it and you suck and I hate you, etc. etc. etc.," let me just save you the time by telling you that if you enjoy it. . . good for you.  I don’t; and it’s my opinion.  This was meant to be funny, and if you can’t see that past the 4,623 shades of lipstick you either buy or sell, then that just means you’re in way too deep to appreciate what I’ve said.  Seek professional help-hate mail doesn’t work.

April 27, 2006

Work on the Worst Part II or Fight Dirty

Sparring. . . gotta love it.  In one 10 minute period of sparring this week, I think I said, "I’m sorry," about 15,000 times.  I also blushed at least twice.  These characteristics. . . apologizing and blushing. . . you wouldn’t think they’d come from someone who fights dirty, but I’m sad to report, they do.  Apparently, Lil C has learned from her mother.  The dirty fighter. . . it’s me. 

It’s not on purpose.  I truly think they are just a woman’s instincts.  But because of these instincts, I told my instructor this week that I am going to buy him something special for Christmas.  I’m sure you can figure out what it is.  If my feet are going to continue to go jewel hunting, then he’s going to need some help.  Not once, but twice my snap kick got way too close to causing some serious damage.  It is not intentional at all.  My instructor is a really nice person, the kind that makes you scratch your head and think, "Who do I know that I could fix him up with?"  I’d like him to be able to have children in the future.  Really, I would. 

My first instinctual kick came up and under the gi jacket so much so that it sent the bottom of his gi jacket flying upwards violently.  The owner of the dojo was in the room at the time, and both instructors let out a collective "Woah!" of protest against my offending foot.  It happened in a flurry of activity.  It wasn’t like I stood there, took aim, and went for it.   It was purely accidental and purely instinct.  I apologized profusely.  My instructor laughed it off; but I think he was sweating a bit. 

With the owner of the dojo, my modus operandi in the past was always to follow him around the floor kicking him in his butt.  I’d aim for his stomach, he’d turn, I’d kick his butt.  Literally.  I guess the good part is that I could leave the dojo and say, "I really kicked butt tonight."  The bad part is that in tournament fighting, I’d have zero points.  Butts don’t count.  Neither do the family jewels.

After the second time that the snap kick came close, my instructor stepped in and said to me, "Any other place but here, that would be a great kick.  It’s o.k."  I think he knew I was feeling pretty badly about it.

So what do I do to make up for it, to thank him for all his encouragement, teaching, and potential sacrifice?  Instead of rolling my block up the outside of his punching arm to back-fist him in the helmet-covered portion of his head, I awkwardly rolled my blocking fist up and over his arm to clock him in the nose.  I didn’t hit him hard; but I hit him hard enough to make him blink it off and I think his nose got a little pink from where my glove nipped him.  Once again, NOT on purpose.  I was trying to practice a technique he taught me about two minutes earlier.  Once again, he stopped to tell me that it would be a killer good hit in a real fight.  I know that it doesn’t take much to make some people’s noses bleed, though.  Just ask my husband.

At a college formal thing, my husband (then boyfriend) and I were having a blast dancing to the 70’s music and were doing that whole spinning while grabbing each others arms thing.  He spun me out and my elbow clipped him in the nose causing a gush of blood.  I finished my spin, turned around dancing and looking for him and he was no where to be found.  A few seconds later, I notice him holding multiple napkins to his bleeding nose.  I had no clue I even hit him.  When I hit my instructor tonight, I held my breath waiting for the blood.  Can you imagine how I would have felt if I had done that?  I am so thankful there was no crimson tide.

And so the sparring continued.  He started by only throwing punches at me, forcing me to block and retaliate.  Then he added kicks.  When I got overwhelmed I would just walk away and laugh at myself.  Nothing makes you feel more stupid than when you stand there and feel like you’re flailing around missing opportunity after opportunity to land a punch or a kick.  It’s almost as bad as walking around with a "Kick Me" sign on your back. 

When I was obviously getting discouraged, my instructor stopped to offer a compliment or two.  "Why are you stopping?" he’d say.  "You’re doing fine; keep going," and I would.  He talked to me tonight about how I’ll eventually develop my own style and my own moves, and then it happened. . . I developed a move.  I am so happy to report that I have my first signature move.  O.k. maybe he sort of suggested it to me and I chose to adopt it and call it my signature move, but still, I have a move, people.  This is progress. 

My move is to place a kick to the solar plexus (stomach area). Then, instead of retreating or bringing that leg completely back, I kick again.  It’s cool, and I feel pretty cool doing it.  A few months ago (with a beach ball sized belly), I never would have even been able to balance to achieve the feat of getting off two decent kicks in a row.  Tonight, I did and I’m feeling a bit proud of myself for that.  Who cares that my hip cracks so loudly in the process that you could hear it next door! I kicked twice, in a row, without putting my foot back on the floor first.  I’m practically Jackie Chan!

I’m also proud of myself for another reason.  Last year during sparring, I only saw one potential area to attack, the butt solar plexus.  Now, I have broadened my horizons and am not afraid to go for the helmet (or an unsuspecting nose apparently).  Last year, I was too intimidated to even attempt a back-fist to the forehead.  This week I rattled off a bunch of them, so I think that can also be considered good progress. 

Another bit of progress just from last week, is that last week I was focusing on my instructors face, trying to read what he was going to do.  He told me to keep my eyes focused on the chest area and keep both legs and arms in view. I did that last night.  I still wasn’t great at it, but at least I’ve trained my eyes to be looking in the right spot.  (Now if only I could get my foot to go to more appropriate places.)

Tonight as I was leaving, I suggested to my husband that he and I get sparring gear so I could practice at home.  Can you imagine that?  Picture a nice day, our daughters playing in the sand box and my husband and I, geared up, sparring in the yard.  Can you imagine how much fun that would be for our neighbors?  I think I’d have an easier time sparring with my husband, especially when he’s on my nerves.  It might actually be good for our relationship too.  You know, take out some aggressions behind the safety of foam padding. 

If and when we get this sparring gear though, one thing is for sure.  I am getting shin guards.  I have a bruise the size of a Ritz cracker on my right shin from where I poorly blocked a kick last week.  This week I learned that you should really turn your leg to the side, blocking with the outer muscular part of your leg.  Muscles make good blockers; bones do not.   I’ve got the shins to prove it.  You’d think after all the years of playing field hockey and getting nailed on a regular basis in the shins, they’d be tough enough; but my 30-something body doesn’t bounce back the way it did when I was in high school.

I think my biggest problem with sparring is that I am lacking the confidence I need to perform.  Being surrounded by many students who are at least half my age doesn’t exactly help things.  I noticed last night that I approach each kick or punch with a bit of skepticism in myself.  I end up psyching myself out, fearing I’ll look silly or stupid, so I don’t attack it the way I should.  I know that this will only get better with more practice.  I’m just hoping my instructor continues to be willing to teach me, what with me threatening his future procreation abilities and all. 

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