Category: General Blather

Lost and Found

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Having a nearly 8-year-old son means I have the karmic retribution my parents longed for when I was 8. Actually, more like when I was 9 and 10. I was 9 when I got glasses.

I left them everywhere.

Even at 9, I didn’t like the stigma that glasses came with (when you’re older they denote maturity and intelligence, when you’re younger they simply — or it seemed to me — equated to “outcast”). I can remember my dad getting nearly home and having to turn around the car and drive back to the school where I had to hunt for my glasses — and I remember to this day where they were: there was a low, curved, brick wall that encircled the larger recess area and I had left them there, on the top of the wall, in the sun. The “reactive tint” technology had just come out and, having baked in the sun for what must have been 2 or 3 hours, they looked like any normal pair of sunglasses. My parents had opted for this technology on glasses for a 9 year old not really because I was outside all that much — although I was, and it was California, after all — but because this “sunglass effect” was supposed to lighten the stigmatic load. I waited ten long years for contacts and was ever so happy when I got them.

I therefore “get it” that it is now my station as mom to contend with an endless stream of semi-lost and permanently lost items. In kindergarten, it was the good heavy winter coat (a Carhart one), in first grade more than one hoodie and two pairs of gloves were never to be found again. This year’s permanent lost item would appear to be the Harry Potter scarf I knitted for him, the loss of which he feels more than I do (which is saying something). I do not hesitate to point out there is a perfectly functional lost and found at his school; I also do not hesitate to point out that it is used by some children (and likely some morally flexible parents) as a trading game.

At the end of every month, the lost and found is weeded: any items not clearly marked with first and last name are taken to a charity in Guatemala. I don’t know what the winters are like in Guatemala but as the things typically lost are scarves, gloves, hats, and jackets, those kids should be set for inclement weather. My son had chosen that day to lose his grey “Hurley” hoodie — Hurley hoodies being what Costco sells and are quite ubiquitous in the local school system here. A quick inspection at home proved it wasn’t here, so I got in touch with the gal who does Lost and Found Donations and was granted an audience in her garage…

…where the BoyChild and I went through three 60 gallon bags of items collected from the Lost and Found at his school. This provided me two benefits: one, I realized mine wasn’t the only child who misplaced things, and two, I realized there were other parents who are apparently so wealthy they do not notice the absence of jackets, sweaters, lunch boxes, etc. Or not much.

The Hurley wasn’t there. Its distant cousin — same grey color, slightly different lining — was there, however, and we had picked it out by accident. Upon inspection though we determined it wasn’t the BoyChild’s, and then he announced that the zipper was broken. The Lost and Found lady was disappointed, and went to trash an otherwise perfectly good hoodie.

To which I interjected: I would take the hoodie, and repair the zipper, and the BoyChild would pay for the zipper as amends for losing *his* hoodie. Then we’d put the hoodie back into the Lost and Found, giving the original owner the opportunity to collect a now repaired hoodie (and hopefully pay it forward) or at least ensuring a functional piece of clothing in donation.

(At this point I should note that I had never replaced a zipper on a garment. I had never put a zipper into any new garment. I had managed to lead a life of garment creation based on buttons or elastic, which means no, I don’t do much in the way of making non-costume clothing).

Tonight the zipper was installed in said hoodie, and it looks I think quite well done. It goes back into the Lost and Found tomorrow, the BoyChild is out $3.67 (after tax), I have one less thing on my to-do plate, and now I can figure out if I want a zipper in my Chiffon Hoodie.

Yes: I was serious about that.

Late to Class

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Everyone has that nightmare: it’s final exam day and you’re completely unprepared and possibly naked in class. Or you’re extremely late to class. Or unprepared in some other way. Or both.

Today I was.

And was again.

I was checking through the site of my nice fancy gym as to which class was available at the time I needed to go today — craziness abounded what with the car coming back from the shop — and discovered a good one about an hour from when I was checking. An hour later I found myself at the gym and went to the room where there is usually the pilates/sculpt kind of classes I go to. When I arrive they’re already in to the routine — there are scary looking poles and bars and barbells and pads and steps and stuff, but it’s all good I can do it. I found an empty spot, acquired equipment, laid down and did some wicked crunches for about 5 minutes…

…and class ended.

I had attended the wrong class.

I left that room and checked the other room that I’m less often going to and sure enough, there were ladies with pilates balls and mats doing interesting stretchy things, and they were 8 minutes into it. So not only was I late to class, but I was late to TWO classes, and completely unprepared. I did my 50 or so minutes, complete with odd twists and turns that make my butt feel (this evening) like it wants to fall off.

This was not as bad as the dream I have where it’s vertebrate histology and they tested us off of six slides on the projector — and actually, that happened in real life — but still. Quite embarrassing.

Score One for the New Girl

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OMG OMG OMG O YOU GUYS!

I was totally right.

The Group Power instructor (Group Power being the hold these large barbells and do things like lunges and squats and lifts and all that in time with the Bee Gees and Twisted Sister, I so kid you not) WAS A CHEERLEADER! I totally called it. No one can have that much fun with a large group of people doing something that most would find only circumstantially appropriate.

Oh, fine, thus endeth the cheerleader hate. (I wasn’t one in high school, could you tell?)

Also, this was my second Group Power class. And I doubled my weight (no, not what I weigh, but what I lifted and hoisted and “singled” and “doubled” and all that). I am feeling very very good. I know I will be feeling very very sore tomorrow, but we aren’t there yet.

In other news, my latest big unwieldy project at work hopes to deliver on Wednesday, the boy is wrapping up soccer this week, and I am going to the ballet (alone! and I’m glad!) on Thursday.

I think I’ll get strangers to take a picture of me there with my iPhone.

Twit

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Twitter is my modern D&D dice: I play with it here and there when I need reassurance that there are other geeks like me, and table it when I get too busy with grown up stuff.

Of late there have been some hashtag games on Twitter that I’ve been tempted to participate in, most notably #moviesinmypants and #thingsIhaveincommonwithWesleyCrusher (courtesy of @wilw aka Wil Wheaton, who is actually much cooler than Wesley Crusher). The problem is, my Twitter is attached to my Facebook, and my Facebook is attached to people at the office, and while I don’t believe that I give an aura of someone excruciatingly professional and remote I don’t know how serious I’ll be taken if I do things like tweet*:

The Ring in My Pants #moviesinmypants

or

I took myself way too seriously as a teenager #thingsIhaveincommonwithWesleyCrusher

Twitter itself has undergone an evolution in purpose and function since it began. It was first 140 character microblogging– something to say about your day or your opinions or your orifices or your cat, that sort of thing. With the accessibility of hashtags, trending topics, and increased user base, it’s become a collective gumwall for people to post upon. Much like the 1970’s Kilroy was Here, you can follow people you don’t know and watch them as they post to people they don’t know. I personally have sent tweets directed at Leonard Nimoy, Nasa, LeVar Burton, Wil Wheaton, Eddie Izzard, and Simon Pegg. I can *guarantee you* that none of them has read those tweets, but somehow knowing I sent them makes me feel better. I think.

I will say this: I adopted FourSquare recently and abandoned it just as blithely; an application by stalkers for stalkers has limited relevance in my post-SayAnything years. I would have a difficult time, however, giving up my twitter feed: it serves as endless bite-size entertainment, like leftover Halloween candy.

Which goes straight to my hips.

*Why is the action of using Twitter indicated as “to tweet”? Shouldn’t it be “to twit”? Or is that too honest?

A Special Hell

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Of late I’ve attempted to go to more of the fitness classes offered by my Big Fancy Gym. For one, it helps my cost-ratio-comparison calculator (hello, Excel!) and for two, it keeps me honest when it comes to working out. It’s very easy to beg out of the cardio bike at 30 minutes because there aren’t 12 other people doing it with me, and there isn’t a preternaturally chipper fitness freak in front of me eyeballing me and 12 other people on said cardio bike. Classes start at 60 minutes and some are 90.

Disclaimer: I do actually love my instructors. But it’s that special kind of love that smacks of… well… smacking.

Today’s experiment was “Group Fitness”; actually it’s one of 3 group-type exercises offered at my Big Fancy Gym. It’s the first time I had gone to this class and for sheer entertainment value (yours, mine, and ours) it cannot be beat.

It was helmed by a woman who is probably 2 years my senior, 50 pounds lighter than I am, and I would not want to meet her in a dark alley. Folks, when I say she was ripped, I mean that the girl in the Bowflex ads wishes she were this gal.

This class revolves around weights — as in, weights on a barbell that you lift and reach out with in various poses (on your back, in squats, in lunges, sitting, etc.) and other weights (not on a barbell) that you do the same, and then some good ol’ fashioned crunches that make your abdominal muscles scream at you for days. Also, she plays classic 70’s and 80’s buttrock for the soundtrack. I got my money’s worth.

What was wholly unexpected is that, upon entering and looking lost (my best defensive mechanism to date), the most frail-looking older lady came up to me (85lbs soaking wet, maybe) and offered to help me set up. She encouraged me to take lighter weights (“Don’t try to be a hero”), set me up, and then did her set-up. Her set-up was a little more aggressive than my set-up but boy howdy am I glad I followed her advice.

Many parts of my body want divorces from other parts of my body.

Our instructor kept checking in with me — publicly (“How’s it going Bobbie? You doin’ okay?”) — and all discourse was in that chipper post-Cheerleader “I’m loving the burn” voice you get only from people who, well, love the burn. “And we’re doing this for 8!” “In twos!” “Double time!” were common chirpy cheers.

Let me make this perfectly clear: if there were a way I could have ditched this class halfway through in favor of a couch and a Cabernet, I would’ve. As it was, I had cheerful participants all around me offering me helpful advice and if there’s one thing I can’t *stand* is the thought that *someone else* thinks I can’t do something. I don’t mind ME thinking I can’t do something, but that is not an opinion that is okay from anyone else. That sort of thinking got me into two half marathons, a triathlon, a two day bike ride, and a master’s program. Okay, so we can all agree that it’s a good sort of thinking.

But my biceps, triceps, quads, hammies, and glutes all agree: What the (*deleted expletive*) was I thinking?

Birthday

Bobbie2 Comments

Today is my birthday. I’m 37.

When I was a kid, I looked forward to my birthday first and foremost as the day when everything would magically go right: there would be cake and presents and I’d be the star of the party. Oh, and presents. Wait, I already said that. At any rate, there would be wonderful awesomeness and it would rain down glitter and stars and balloons and even when I was in junior high (which I hated, hated, hated) it was still a pretty good day to be had.

The thing is, when you’re a kid, you spend a lot of time planning and daydreaming about your next birthday — usually starting the day after your last one — and then you get to the big day, and then you start daydreaming of the next one. These daydreams are punctuated in pause by Christmas (or Hanukkah or whatever other large family occasion one celebrates) and occasionally ameliorated by summer break or vacations.

In my 20’s, my birthday was still special, but of course then it involved alcohol, a check from my parents, and some sort of dining-out thing. Occasionally it included a trip to Vegas (for, living in San Diego, Vegas is a cheap and expedient trip). The amount of daydreaming and expectation surrounding the actual day, however, did start to dwindle.

In my 30’s, I had a child, sold and bought a house, got a divorce, and embarked on a new career. All of these things chipped away at the birthday expectation time, until we arrive to this, my 37th birthday.

I just realized yesterday that today was really IT.

Here is an absolutely accurate account of how I have spent this birthday:

1. Woke up. Late. As in, I hit the alarm clock one too many times. So, I spent my at-home birthday morning rushing around the house like a wildwoman, dressing in the first convenient thing (grey dress, black boots, tights), fed the dogs and off I went.

2. Oh crap, I didn’t moisturize. And I’ve run out of in-car moisturizer. Target time, where I buy moisturizer. And Oil of Olay’s latest foofy answer to wrinkles and eye bags (I kid you not). Anti-aging cream as the first purchase of the day: it says something, doesn’t it?

3. Oh crap, I didn’t eat breakfast. Ok. Top Pot time, even though I wasn’t  all happy about my weight (which was -2 on Thursday but +1 on Friday. I have worked 5 of the last 6 days so I do not know what is up there).

4. To work, barely in time for meeting 1. Then there’s meeting 2, some more work stuff, blah blah. Then it’s off to

5. The Chiro, who is Always Chiropractic & Wellness, and I highly recommend them.

6. Well adjusted, I went home to walk dogs and sort out this and that whilst I waited the 20 minutes for the

7. Parent Teacher conference for the boychild. Boychild is doing well, we have plans to increase the wellness. And stuff. So then I rush back to

8. Work, where there are more deliverables and stuff.

And that’s really my day. I may go out later … it’s looking like I will… but I can’t help but think this is a comment on my relative age: the day has revolved around the boy, wrinkles, work, and the generalized responsibilities of the suburban single parent. There is no birthday check in the mail, there will not be presents and cake and candles, and I’m fine with that. At least I haven’t got to the point where birthdays are a chore, or to be avoided.

I expect that’ll be next year.

Time Managed

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I love me some Halloween. Love it! I have gravestones I put out in my yard and skeletons I put in my entryway; the season is not complete unless there are two trips to the pumpkin patch. So when I realize that Halloween is 10 days away (pretty much) and I have done no decorating, have no costume, and have a limited number of hours left to contend with all of that, I get a little sad.

Lately I’ve had to force time for things that are not Boy or Work. Things like workouts, seeing friends, dates, hobby time are all limited to a few hours a week. If I have a project due (Harry Potter Hogwarts robe, anyone?) it can endanger the presence of the rest. If I have to travel for work (NYC last week), it can shove everything aside as well. Last week I worked out twice. One bike, one swim. That is not sufficient.

Making time for working out (which is necessary, because with the holidays approaching and cold weather incoming this little heifer gained some weight already) is a really big issue of late. I’ve managed to hit the gym 3 times in 4 days, and hope to get it to a regular 5x week, but it’s at the sacrifice of other things. There are just not enough hours in the day!

One might point out that if I didn’t sign myself up for thirty-odd things I wouldn’t have this problem. I suppose I worry that if  I give up one or two or three I’ll suddenly have pruned too much (like I do with plants) and I’ll be stuck with an ugly empty unproductive life.  The male person teases me about me worrying that my idle hands are the “devil’s playground” and, minus the religious implication, that may be correct.

It’s a mark of a grown up that part of me sees the logic in the Halloween products making it into stores so much earlier in the year. It may take that sort of planning after all.

… in the City

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No, no sex. Sorry. This is the public blog.

I write from a Starbucks on the corner of West 63rd and Broadway, next to my hotel. Having stayed up to a dubious hour (1am anyone?) I am in need of the caffeine injection that is being served up, ironically, by a cup of decaf.

The city (or this tiny pocket of it, which is all I’ve seen of NY but for my cab ride between JFK and here — NY cabs always make me nauseous, I don’t know why) is much less odiferous then when I was last here. The combination of a rainstorm and mid-60’s weather makes it nearly clean, and I can see why some would choose to live here. Me, there’s no way: the sheer volume of people can be oppressive.

In true efficient business trip fashion, I’m here for slightly under 48 hours and expect to fly out in my cramped little Delta seat tonight. My only cultural brush was the view of the NY Philharmonic just outside of my window, which was nice. That, and catching Clash of the Titans the night before last while jetlagged.

Yes, business travel is soooo glamorous.

That said, on to the hotel review: The Empire Hotel, which is two doors down from my Starbucks at present. It’s a beautiful hotel, tastefully appointed, with a fitness room (recumbent bike only), meeting rooms, a restaurant (we didn’t eat there last night, opting for a Mexican restaurant with half-naked divers of GiJoe Action Figure size positioned side by side on a tile waterfall), and a lounge. We made good use of the lounge last night.

The individual rooms were purported to be small by NYC standards according to the reviews I had read, but I really didn’t find them so. (Rooms at the Paramount are small). The beds are very comfortable, I wish I had been able to enjoy them more but jetlag left me but six hours each night to actually sleep. Toiletries are Supreme Unleaded, with L’Occitane making them and you indeed smell like Froot Loops when you’re done bathing. This is not a bad thing in the city.

Bleh

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Lately I’ve been attempting to keep in shape with the full-contact pilates and swimming. I’ve succeeded in the sense that I’m not gaining weight… but I’m not losing it, either.

In other news, this picture reminds me of the pain that is full-contact pilates. This would be the “Petulant Child Pose”.

Full Contact Pilates

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There’s a class here at my fancy gym called “Group Cyntergy”. The idea is to combine Pilates and Yoga, and put it to music, and do it with a bunch of other people. Harmless suburban exercise, right?

My Cyntergy class is run by a lovely lady named Michelle, who is twenty years my senior (guestimating from the skin around her eyes) but looks about ten years older (guestimating from the rest of her physique). Random facts she’s shared in class lead me to believe my former guestimate is correct. She could kick anyone’s ass.

In class she does.

There are all of these moves — it’s like a game of deranged twister. I mean, take your left foot, and put it in front of you. Crouch down in a lunge, with your right foot far back. Take your left hand, extend it down and to the right as far as you can. Take your right hand, extend it ceilingward as far as you can. Got that? Now hold it. Hold it while your muscles begin to shake, and then reverse the pose, exchanging your lefts with your rights. Repeat. Ok now do it faster.

Then listen to some Red Hot Chilli Peppers while you are laying on your back, with your legs in the air, in a slow scissor motion, and doing something not quite unlike an awful crunch.

Keep doing things like this, while your muscles twitch and burn and hurt, for an hour.

Then you go home, and your collarbone hurts like mad.

Now, I KNOW I haven’t broken my collarbone, because there has been no impact, and no one rammed into me with a small Rugby team when I was in the QFC afterward. Ergo, it’s not actually the bone.

It *isn’t* actually the bone.

Apparently if you’re a woman, you’re used to having these semi-pendulous things hanging from your chest, they cause your head and neck to angle forward if you’re not paying attention. Then, add the Personal Pain Olympics that is Group Cyntergy — further pulling forward (again you’re not paying attention though you should be). Viola, strained musculature around the collarbone.

I will go back, but I think it’s time to find other other classes.