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My Career, My Way : Lucky Magazine

you know what 'bucket' rhymes with, right?

Over the past few months while I was not updating my blog, I was training for a 5k.

A few things you should know:

1. I hate running.

2. See #1

Let's face it, I've never been a big fan of exercising in general. But, when I turned thirty muffled number here, I decided that I would put "run a 5k" on my Bucket List.

Good times.

Here's my history with running:

- in Junior High, as part of gym class, we were forced to run 1 mile. Each and every one of us must run 4 laps around the track, and we had to stay until we finished.* I (begrudgingly) ran a 15-minute mile in raspberry-colored high-top Converse sneakers, my friend Kate cheering me on the whole way. I seem to remember being late for my next class and having wicked shin splints.

- in college, my roommates and I went to watch the Boston Marathon. The lead female runner ran the entire race with diarrhea and her period. She actually ran the race with watery poop streaming down her legs and into her socks. And she didn't stop once. I was scarred for life.

- in my mid-twenties I signed up to run the "Corporate Challenge" through my company. My friend T-Nice and I trained for weeks, jogging up and down Commonwealth Avenue. I even spent some time at the gym on the treadmill. As the big day approached, my company let me know that they 'over booked' the Challenge, and there wasn't a spot for me to run. All of that training for nothing. I quit cold turkey.

Which brings us to present day.

In an effort to be healthier, I convinced a friend to do the 'Couch to 5K' with me. I set my goal as Labor Day weekend and the New Haven Road Race. After all, it was 4 months away.

The first week was great. 60 seconds of jogging? Bring it on!

The second week, my running partner told me she was pregnant.

((sigh))

But to her credit, she's been doing awesome. She rests when she needs to, and runs along side me when she can.

We're almost done - up to 2.75 miles.

For someone who hated running, I think I've finally made peace with it.

I feel good. I've lost some weight. I'm eating better.

Will I run with the runs?

Um, never.

I'm not THAT crazy.

*I'm sorry, does anyone else see this as child abuse? If this were today, the gym teacher would have been fired, I'd have been paid a hefty sum to rectify my 'emotional state', and I would have a Lifetime movie deal.

Animal Hoarders

You've seen the show. You know what it's about. People keeping too many cats, or dogs, or ferrets.

Well, we seem to have hoarding going on in our house, too:

pictured left to right: Vito, Boar, Slipper (not an animal), Pink Panther, Big Reindeer, Marten, Little Reindeer and Stupid Toy (not sure what it is).

(Not pictured, but on the floor in front of the couch: Lambie Doodles, Squirrel, Purple Monkey and Plaid Monkey.)

Vito is truly enjoying his window seat that we had built out for him in the new house. So much so, that we constantly have a menagerie of toys like a trail of breadcrumbs leading up to his brown blanket.

Vet = nightmare

This is how Friday's vet visit went down.

6am-3:39pm: freak out about giving Vito his pre-vet tranquilizer.

3:40pm: administer tranquilizer. this is done by masking the little peach pill in a piece of yummy provolone. Vito doesn't even chew.

3:41pm: Vito and I stare at each other.

3:42pm: ((blink))

3:45pm: Vito gets tired of our staring contest and retreats to the couch. I follow, afraid he's going to fall out of his window seat.

3:52pm: Vito closes his eyes and I have a mini heart-attack. I place my hand on his soft white chest fur; his little heart is beating a million miles a minute. He opens an eye and gives me a look that says, 'Seriously, mom?'

4:15pm: Vito hears a noise outside and starts barking his head off. Tranquilizer has not yet kicked in.

4:21pm: I leash Vito up for our big adventure.

4:22pm: it starts pouring. Of course it does.

4:34pm: We are three minutes from the vet's office and Vito starts howling and squealing. He knows where we're going and the tranquilizer is yet to start working.

4:38pm: last minute poop on the vet's lawn while being pelted by rain. Make that TWO poops.

4:40pm: the receptionist recognizes my little monster and makes a quiet call to the back.

4:41pm: we're brought to Room 2. Vito hides under the bench. He's so nervous he's leaving little sweaty paw prints on the floor.

4:43pm: a vet assistant visits with the Hannibal Lector muzzle. She takes Vito in the back.

4:45pm: guttural crying from the back.

4:47pm: they must be shoving bamboo shoots under his fingernails.

4:49pm: silence! Oh no wait, he was taking a breath.

5:11pm. The vet brings Vito out. He had his shots and has a nice manicure. He has also pooped himself, as usual.

5:12pm: "I'm sorry. I gave him the tranquilizer, but I don't think it worked." I apologize. "no worries," the vet says, "the tranquilizer took the edge off for him."

That was the tranquilizer working???

5:34pm: bath time for Vito!

6:14pm: the tranquilizer kicks in, and we have one very stoned doggie.






- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

reason #237 why I'd be a bad mother

We're trying something new.

In preparation for our big vet trip in just one hour, I just gave him a Tranquilizer for the first time.

And I cried the whole time.

As bad as prior vet trips have been - muzzling him until he looks like Hannibal Lecter, hearing him squeal bloody murder when the doctor so much as looks at him, and - my personal favorite - Vito pooping himself in fear - they seemed tame compared to the thought of giving prescribed narcotics to my little boy.

I'm paranoid! I drugged my dog! What's going to happen to him? Is he going to all of sudden pass out? Slurring his bark? Demand brownies and potato chips?

Me + medicine + children = probably not a good idea.

feeling beachy

Last week, after charting the air and cloud patterns and stalking The Weather Channel, I decided to take a 'me day'. Because of my research and diligence, my 'Me Day' was a perfect 80 degrees with plentiful sunshine and billowy clouds.

I spent my 'Me Day' at the beach, relaxing and reading.

While on the beach, I met a cute boy named Tristan. He had the bluest eyes and blondest hair.

Oh, and he was 2 years old.

Technically, I didn't meet Tristan. However, I felt I knew him intimately, due to his mother screaming - loudly and incessantly - her little boy's name.

"TRISTAN! COME BACK HERE!"

"TRIIISTAN! PUT THAT DIRTY SHELL DOWN!"

"TRISTAN MICHAEL! DON'T MAKE GET OUT OF THIS CHAIR!"

You see, what this mother did not realize, was that two-year-olds do not find sitting quietly on a beach much fun, while their mother reads UsWeekly and texts her friends.

And please don't send me hate mail if you're a mother who enjoys beach time with their children. Hey, I'm a beach baby myself. My mother was hard-core. She'd go to the beach, covered in baby oil, lying on that foil blanket-thing to maximize the sun's rays on the underside of her thighs. And when she didn't want to miss valuable sun time, she'd bring me along. She used to bury my jar of food (yes, I was raised on formula and jarred pears, oh the horror!) to heat it up for my lunch.

So I get bringing your kid the beach.

However, if you're going to bring your child to the beach, there are rules that must be followed:

- you must sit AT LEAST 20 feet away from me; there's a whole beach here, there is no reason why you must occupy the sand directly next to me

- if you come to beach with more paraphernalia for one hour than I do for a week's vacation, please turn around

- there is no screaming at the beach

- kids who run on the beach kick up sand. I hate getting sand on my towel/hair/legs/face

- the lifeguard is not your child's babysitter

- the ocean is not your child's toilet

- leaving a diaper on a baby under a bathing suit just causes diaper rash

Speaking of children in bathing suits, it was almost too much when this mother - a half hour after arriving at the beach - says to her son, "Tristan, come here and Mommy will put your bathing suit on you."

Um, is there any reason why that wasn't done BEFORE you got to the beach???

BOOK REVIEW: 'Just Let Me Lie Down'

I just finished reading 'Just Let Me Lie Down - Necessary Terms For The Half-Insane Working Mom' by Kristin van Ogtrop, the editor of Real Simple magazine.

I had been wanting to read this book ever since hearing a friend (a working mom!) tell me about it. The way she described it to me is, "When you write your novel, it's exactly how I imagine the writing would be."

I took that as a compliment.

Because reading this book has made ME want to write MY book.

It's sweet and funny, and a quick read. vag Ogtrop (wow, that IS a mouthful) has an easy writing style about her. Real Simple is one of my favorite magazines, and one of the few that made the cut over the last year (others fell to the wayside for reasons like, 'Let's save money!' or 'I've seen that Cameron Diaz photo in 12 different places!' and 'One less address to change!').

Working Mothers will like 'JLMLD'. Not because they are going to carry it around like it's the next Dr. Spock book. But because they can relate. And, if nothing else, go to bed thinking, 'Wow, I thought my life was insane! I got it easy!'

Working Non-Mothers (like me!) will also like 'JLMLD'. Although, I have to say, after reading everything that van O juggles, I couldn't help but feel slightly inferior. Here I am, working a normal 8-6 job, no kids, no extra-curricular activities besides enjoying cocktails on the patio, and I find it difficult to find time to do laundry or buy my husband deodorant.

So now that I finished 'Just Let Me Lie Down', it's time for me to stop lying down, and start doing some writing. Every time Real Simple hosts a 'Life Lessons' writing contest, I always say I'm going to enter. Last time I got as far as writing out a few paragraphs (progress!).

If you're looking for a fun summer read, that's light and easy and may cause you to double up on birth control (kidding!*), pick up 'Just Let Me Lie Down'.

*sort of

carded.

To protect my new stove - er, our bright and shiny new house - Mr. KK and I put in an alarm system.

We don't live in a high-crime neighborhood, but we do live off the main street down a long, dark driveway, surrounded by eerie woods. Even writing that sentence gave me the creeps. You see, Mr. KK's grandmother used to live here, and on the night of her husband's wake, she was robbed. The lessons here are:

1. never advertise in the newspaper that you will be away from your house for, let's say, a wake or funeral, or even a honeymoon. (and certainly don't post it on a blog!)

2. the world is filled with asshats

I'm a neurotic door-locker, so an alarm for those times that Mr. KK works late or is traveling made sense. Plus, this house was robbed before! What if they're casing the joint again??*

*they're not.

The only issue with having an alarm, is having a dog who likes to jump on furniture and into the new window seat we built for him and set off the motion detectors. The first time we set the alarm, we weren't 10 minutes down the road and the alarm company called us. We pulled an illegal U-ey and headed back home, and begged them to un-dispatch the police.

So obviously there's an issue. So I called the alarm company and requested to have someone come out and see if we could lessen the sensitivity or something like that.

So on Friday at 4pm I watched the nicely-marked XYZ Security van come down our driveway, and smiled as the nice man in the XYZ Security t-shirt came to the door.

"Hello. Do you have picture ID?" I asked him.

He answered with a dramatic and - what I would say utterly exaggerated - sigh, and walked back to his van. He rummaged around for a bit and came back with a badge.

And, in an exasperated tone says to me, "Here it says XYZ Security. That right there is my name. And there's a picture of me." He left a silent, 'Satisfied?' in the air between us.

I replied with a sweet 'thank you' and we got to work.

I felt my request for ID was a legitimate one. After all, I was inviting him in to help me work on the security of my house. Maybe he hijacked the REAL security guy 2 blocks away, looked up my address, and came over to attack me.

Or maybe I watch too much CSI.