Love and Rocket

Since we last spoke, Meredith got sealants on her molars, we went to The Magic House, I had lunch with a friend at The Blue Owl, I met up with the high school gang for our Third Thursday gathering, I got my hair cut, I baked biscotti, I finished a freelance project, I ate some Indian food, and I had to say goodbye to an old friend.

KissingRocket

I bought Rocket the Nissan in September of 1999 after my Honda Civic died on the streets of Nashville, Tennessee. Barely one year old, Rocket had one owner before me—someone who wore artificial fingernails. (She left one in the side pocket of the driver door. I found it when I was digging for a map. It had skin on it. I’m still cringing.) Anyway, that car made it through our wedding, the move back to St. Louis, the switch from apartment to house, and the birth (and progression of car seats) of MC and Harp.

I won’t bore you with the details, but: Rocket started showing signs of death a few months back. When her “Service Engine Soon” light came on, we were told that it would cost more to fix her than what she was worth. (Stinking Death Panels! Bah!)

Last night we packed the family into Rocket and I slowly drove her (with dignity) to the dealer, where we traded her in for a Sonata. And as we drove off the lot in BluLu (Harper’s name for the new ride), I looked back at Rocket and said, “I bet Rocket is yelling, ‘Hey! Wait! Family?! Where are you going?! Hey! Don’t leave me here!!! Family?’” And then Rocket really DID seem sad. And then my eyes started watering. Stupid allergy season.

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Would you please consider voting for SLLIS to receive an equipment grant that will go toward building a playground? (It’s as easy as clicking a button, and you can vote once each day until March 31.) I do love you for doing this. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Someone get these dark chocolate covered pomegranate seeds out of my kitchen!

I know the exact weight I need to be in order for my jeans to fit.

In January, I discovered that I was fourteen pounds OVER that weight, and my jeans still fit. However, when I removed my jeans (in a completely wholesome way, in order to quickly change into my vanilla frog pajamas), I had bumpy dark red rings around my waist indicating that I was putting some real strain on the waistband of my pants. Sadly, those rings stuck around throughout the night and into the next morning, serving as a constant reminder that although 14 is one of my very favorite numbers (42 is another!), it doesn’t really reflect well on my mid-section. (And let’s not even talk (or think) about my butt! I’m not joking around right now!)

(Side note: I often wonder if I should be drinking more water. Why on earth are those jean rings still hanging out nearly twelve hours after I remove my pants? (Greetings to the people who are finding my website after Googling “remove my pants!” Pull up a chair! There is absolutely nothing for you to see here!) Also, every night I spend way too much time smoothing out my pillow, because I know that any crease that finds its way to my face during the night will still be visible when I pick the kids up from school at 3:30 the next afternoon. I have actually canceled trips to the grocery store because of embarrassing pillow creases. I look like Seal!)

Anyway, because I wasn’t thrilled with the decorative red and itchy jean rings, I decided to take 12 weeks to drop the 14 pounds. And this is important: I decided to do it without adding any sort of exercise. Because zero exercise + zero exercise = I get to stay on the couch and knit! You think I’m lazy! You are correct! Don’t ask me to high five you. It might make me palpitate!

Two weeks ago, I reached the 10 Pounds Gone mark. And despite the Upping of the Fiber and the Continual Slow Elimination of Processed Foods, I’ve been hovering at 10 Pounds Gone now for 15 days. Unacceptable.

Last night for the first time in probably a decade, I did step aerobics for 30 minutes. And, according to The People Who Figure This Stuff Out, I burned 190 calories. And then I sucked three gallons of sweat out of the carpet with our wet vac. Today? My legs feel like noodles. And, according to The People Who Do This Sort of Thing Regularly, I’m supposed to really dig the fact that my legs feel like noodles. But I don’t. In fact, I think it’s time for a crazy animal print hat, because I’m finding that my stride today is quite pimp-like.

To meet my original goal, I have three weeks to lose four pounds. Tonight I’m going to get my hair cut, which means roughly 1/20th of a pound will be left on the floor at my hair joint. When I get home, I might shave my legs. (We’re entering skirt season, you know.)

Every little bit helps. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Whatever happened to Buddy Hinton?

Jeff’s birthday was Monday, and although we didn’t get him exactly what he wanted, we did get him a few small useful things. (Like Skittles! And Garfield Minus Garfield!) When he returned home from work on his birthday, the girls sat him on the couch and instructed him to close his eyes and hold out his hands. Obviously, this gave Jeff the opportunity to act all deranged—with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched as far as they would go, he waited until the girls screamed, “No! That’s too big!” before he started swinging his arms around like he was swimming in a pool of monkeys. Because I’m not very graceful when it comes to giving gifts, I danced around and attempted to place an Applebee’s gift card into one of his flailing arms. (Please know that his eyes were still closed and the girls were screaming with delight. Chaos, I tell you.) As I jerked around and placed the card into his left hand, Jeff swung his right arm and punched me square in the jaw. Immediately, my eyes began to water and the scene quickly turned from knee-slapping birthday jollification to remorse for the ghastly accidental pounding.

Me: So. Is this what 39 is going to be like?

Jeff: You KNOW I don’t like APPLEBEE’S!!!

(He didn’t really say that. Jeff recognizes the importance of eating good in the neighborhood.)

Internet, may I ask a favor of you? (I always feel weird doing this, and I try not to do it often.) Two friends of mine have kids who attend the St. Louis Language Immersion School (SLLIS). The school is currently in the running to receive an equipment grant that will go toward building a playground. (I absolutely hate the idea of kids not having a playground.) I will not ask you to donate cash, but would you please consider voting for SLLIS to receive one of these grants? (It’s as easy as clicking a button, and you can vote once each day until March 31.)

I offer you my deepest thanks, along with the promise that this act of kindness will not get you punched in the jaw. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Swinging dead cats and wishing for the perfect naan.

I once made the statement that you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a gifted kid. After saying it, I sort of regretted saying it, as I tend to regret many of the things I say out loud. (“Quarter Pounder with cheese, mustard, pickle, and onion” is an excellent example of this. Also, the fact that I’m constantly chewing on my foot (figuratively!) is one of the many reasons why you’ll probably never see me in person! I like to stay in my (mostly soundproof) house! I sing songs to my cats! Anyway!)

I wasn’t going to share this with you, but I suddenly feel like I should: Meredith was recently accepted into the gifted program at school. After consulting with us, her teacher recommended her, she tested surprisingly well, and Wham! Every Thursday morning she now reports to the middle school where she has her own locker and she changes classes along with an entire hallway of first and second graders who are also in the program. And I’m being intentionally vague, because it’s such a thin fence between bragging on your kid and not bragging and I suppose it’s not wrong to brag about your kid, and gheez. It’s just sort of new to me, but I will say this: Meredith LOVES her Thursdays, and I like to think of it as her song to sing—not mine.

This might seem like I’m changing the subject, but I’m not: Meredith gets car sick, and because of that, she can’t/won’t ride the bus. This morning I had to take her to the middle school at 9:00, pick her up at 11:00 (it was an early dismissal day), drive her to the elementary school, return home and feed Harper lunch, take Harper to the elementary at 12:30, go back to the middle school for the parent/teacher conference at 1:20, and then back home where I currently sit typingtypingtyping until 3:06 when I make my way back to the elementary to pick them both up. AND, because Jeff is in California and I slept like a horse last night (mostly on my feet, lots of fidgeting and swinging my tail at imaginary bugs), I’m feeling a bit raw.

And now I’m going to change into an even more opaque hat: Something was brought up at today’s conference that should have been brought up at last week’s conference with her elementary classroom teacher, and I’m currently stuck between a rock and a hard place (Ah! Clichés! Rattlesnakes!) because I feel the need to confront someone, but I secretly know I can’t because there’s a 17% chance that it might affect a friendship, and because I am who I am, this is going to bother me for days, and hey! I’m really liking that sick mom from American Idol, aren’t you?

After actually feeling tempted to taste goat meat last weekend, I am now 100% committed to learn how to cook authentic Indian food of the vegetarian variety. (Live long and prosper, Goats!) It seems that whenever Jeff and I get the chance to hit a restaurant, we always go for Indian. I’ve asked for cookbook recommendations on Twitter, and I’ve now added a few to my Amazon wish list. (Whee! A list of wishes!) I’m now wondering if you have any words of wisdom. What I really want is to figure out exactly how the place down the street makes their Delhi’s Chaat. From there? Saag paneer. And on and on until my house smells like an Indian Palace. (Don’t worry. I’m not going to go all Julie and Julia: The Indian Version on you. I’m not nearly that perky.)

Look. I knitted a hat and some washcloths for Meredith’s kindergarten teacher. There I go again, getting all twirly and knitting gifts for teachers!

Gifts for Boys, etc.