Survival of the Fitness

I get on the treadmill at precisely 6:37 every weekday morning. Not out of any compulsion or superstition, it just so happens that my post-alarm (6:22), pre-workout toilette takes exactly 15 minutes.

Not a whole lot is on TV at 6:37am. I flip between our local NBC affiliate's morning news program and VH-1 (at 6:37 they actually play videos-- only two videos sandwiched between each set of extensive commercial breaks and waaaay too much Daughtry and Lady Antebellum but still, actual full-length videos).

Morning news shows spend a lot of time on traffic and weather, which, you would think, would be a drag for me because I'm trying to distract myself from my workout and weather and traffic are not even in the same galaxy as entertainment.

But that is not the case with my morning TV gang. The weather man is very dry and very funny. I may even have a tiny geeky crush on him. And the traffic gal, as I've only just recently realized, is Mrs. Malaprop.

Last week, she alerted viewers to roads where "flood waters are starting to reside" and the other day she gave us an update on the earlier report of a tractor trailer that had been on fire, noting that all flames "had been distinguished." How fantastic is that!?

I have got to be the only non-commuter waiting eagerly for traffic on the 4s.

Bag Lady

My husband is getting me a not-brown handbag for Xmas. I know this because he told me. And he told me because, while there are many things I am fairly good at, faking I like a present that I clearly don't is not one of them.

So we went shopping together.

I enjoy shopping with my husband because having him there somehow quiets the incessant debate in my head over whether an item is worth its price (it rarely is). It's like I don't have to edit myself as much if there is another rational adult there who co-signs off on the purchase.

Back to the bags. Remember when it seemed like every socialite and infamous former White House intern was developing her own handbag line? They weren't alone. There are a lots and lots (and lots) of bags out there.

It quickly became clear to my husband that finding the right bag for me was not a job he ever could have undertaken on his own. It's almost like Ollivander's Wand Shop-- you have to find the one bag among the many for your arm, for your shoulder: the right leather, the right color, the right heft, the right hardware, the right handle length. It's a very personal decision. Nothing spoke to me. Not even the bags that cost more than most mortgage payments (not that those were ever actually in the running).

My husband pointed out how ironic it is that some of the biggest price tags are for so-called "hobo" bags. Talk about the rich making money on the backs of the poor... Occupy Neiman Marcus!

New Feature: Free Plugs (Products We Love)

Thursday morning at about 8:30 the phone rang. Calls that come in before the school bus are never welcome. Not just because they threaten to throw off the timing of our morning routine but also because they generally bring unwelcome news: neighbor emergencies, cancelled play dates, snow days, etc.

This call was no exception. It was my hair salon calling to let me know that my colorist was sick and would have to cancel my appointment that day. And the first availability that would work for me was in one week. Ack!

Princess problems, right? Perhaps, but the fact of the matter is that, as of Thursday morning, I was already a week overdue to get my roots done. Yikes. Is that a calico cat on your head? No, just my roots. Another week was not going to be pretty. And you can't wear a hat all the time (I'm talking to you, Gavin DeGraw).

Enter Sephora. That's what I did. I told the saleswoman there my tale of (hair) woe and she introduced me to my new favorite product: Rita Hazan Root Concealer.


I was skeptical but desperate. The Sephora lady sprayed this stuff on my rooots to test the color and PRESTO! It looked like I had just walked out of the salon. Truly unbelievable.


My husband, aghast to see me spraypainting my hair, made me promise that I wouldn't lean on Rita in lieu of actually getting my roots done. And I won't. But I will surely be keeping a bottle in the house. (Or two. Shhh...!)

Eye of the Tiger Cub

As testament to how seriously we take kids' sports these days, I had an email from my daughter's soccer coach asking to set up a time to do a half-hour phone evaluation of my kid as a player. The call (which my daughter was required to be in on) consisted of an incredibly detailed assessment of her technical, tactical, physical and psychological abilities. Each of these categories was broken down into offensive and defensive subsets.

It was suggested that my daughter perform some kind of ritual pregame like putting on her right shinguard, sock and cleat, then the left and separating herself from the rest of the team for ten minutes to listen to inspirational music on her iPod to truly focus her thoughts/energy.

She's 10.

So I went on the Internet to try and find suggestions for psyche-up songs that postdate the '80s (I can only throw in so many big hair classics!). Unfortunately, I could only find heavy metal play lists for body building. One whoknewitevenexisted moment came with a CD of "Songs for Jocks" but ... eh, not so much.

Any and all thoughts welcome.

Animal Magnetism?

Last Monday I was watching TV with my husband when I noticed movement in the dining room. It was a bat. Bat #4, in fact, in the space of 9 years (same one, perhaps?). By using detached screens doors, a plastic file folder and a shoebox we managed to get it outside with no one hurt.

Tuesday, my dryer stopped working and in an effort to save money I detached the vent hose and vacuumed in the hose, machine and wall myself. THWUMP! Sucked up a dead mouse and accompanying sunflower seed kernels. Smelled like the inside of a Turkish wrestler's jockstrap.

This morning as I took my daughter to school I noticed a large deer lying on the main road just at the junction of our side street. Five minutes later, on my way back home a policeman was standing over the "corpse" and just as I turned into my road there was a deafening blast as he put Bambi out of it's misery with his gun. Is that even legal btw?

I'm really hoping that bad things do happen in threes because I am more than ready to return to my "Snow White" relationship with animals.

Coal? No Fracking Way, Santa

Like the mighty gladiator deftly swinging his sword, I wield the power of Santa with no mercy.

If I have to contend with Christmas music in stores and Rudolph specials on TV days before the Thanksgiving hand-turkeys have even hit the recycling bin, then you can bet your fir tree that I'm going to take full advantage of the one upside to the ever-earlier start of the holiday season: the naughty/nice distinction.

That's right. Santa Claus is coming to town, kiddos. So please put down that Wii controller. Stop teasing your sister. Clean up those littlest pet shop critters. Let's stop screaming. Wash your hands. Feed the dog. Stop bothering your brother. No fighting. Get ready for bed. Get back to bed. Go to sleep.

See, it's not riding them about their behavior; it's protecting their interests (in receiving presents). I think that secures a spot for me on the nice list too.

It's the most wonderful time of the year....

Hair No Evil

This afternoon's carpool was all kinds of hairy.

HAIRY adj \ˈher-ē\
1a : covered with hair or hairlike material
b : having a downy fuzz on the stems and leaves
2: made of or resembling hair
3a : tending to cause nervous tension (as from danger)
b : difficult to deal with or comprehend

Driving three very giggly, screechy six year old girls and one very loud, button-pushing eight year old boy in the dark through pouring rain to a remote location is hairy enough.

When you factor in the conversation taking place in the back of the car,* which somehow degenerated from all three girls making fun of their older brothers to two of them (not my own thankfully) talking about the relative size of their fathers' privates (as compared to their brothers' privates), you've entered into a new realm of hairy.

Taking definition 3a to its "hairy adventure" limits, one of the little girls realized she could elicit riotous laughs from the other three kids by referring to her father's evidently-not-so-private parts as hairy. And so that's what she did. Loudly and often.

Except she hasn't quite gotten her r's in line yet so it sounded more like hairwee.

Hairwee. Heh Heh. Shut up, Beavis.

I'm off to scrub my ear holes with soap and bleach.

* When, oh when, will some automotive engineer or enterprising wannabe Shark Tank contestant run with my brilliant idea to put limo-type partitions between the front seat and crazy town?!

Wash What You Eat

I saw a report on the news about a salmonella outbreak linked to chicken liver. The suspect chicken liver is evidently packaged and sold in one of two ways: 10 pound boxes each holding two five pound bags labelled "Broiled Chicken Liver: Made for Further Thermal Processing" and 10 pound boxes of loose packed "Chicken Liver Broiled."

I'm the first to roll my eyes at the post-McDonald's hot coffee lawsuit era's over-lawyered CYA labelling of everything but I think the chicken liver folks could have used more input. Yes, the packages do say that the meat has to be cooked thoroughly and no I have no idea how raw those chicken livers actually looked inside the package but in a world where people need to be told that coffee is going to be hot and knives are sharp is it so surprising that a consumer might assume something that is "Broiled" has actually been cooked?

Which brings me to my latest beef: why do the so-called convenience bags of greens say "ready to eat" but then suggest that you wash the contents? Exactly what step are you saving me? The bagging? The chopping?

I just found bagged, chopped kale at the store yesterday, which I was psyched about because the process of washing giant heads of kale and separating the more-edible parts from the less-edible parts sometimes feels endless. Looking at the bag at home, I noticed that it said "ready to cook" (as opposed to ready to eat in a salad) in several places. Chicken livers fresh in my mind, I placed a quick call to the customer service number to make sure they hadn't somehow assumed I'd be broiling away some bacteria.

"No, no," the woman assured me, "it's fine for a salad. Just be sure to wash it first." Gaaah!

By Your Command

It's time to get political. Wait, don't leave, this is going to be good! I will admit up front that I am a true bleeding-heart, hippy pinko Democrat BUT I do like certain individual Republicans like John McCain. So it is (mostly) without partisan bias that I spill the biggest secret ever: all of the front-running Republican candidates for president in 2012 are androids.

Now, these are not the washed-out androids who are incapable of using speech contractions ("isn't", rather than "is not", eg.) a la Star Trek. These fakes are much more subtle - think the new Battlestar Gallactica - but the tells are there. Conjure up a mental picture: Mitt Romney, Rick Perry, Michele Bachmann, Herman Cain, Jon Huntsman, even (gag) Sarah Palin (I know she's no longer technically a candidate but she still has a dangerous number of followers). They have PERFECT hair, skin, teeth and clothes. They are all in great shape and stand up straight. They smile when they are saying bad things and rarely blink. Mitt 'National Lampoon" Romney strapped the family dog to the roof of his car and drove from Boston to Canada for goodness sake! No human would ever do that. And have you seen Rick "Max Headroom" Perry laugh? It's like he's stuck on a loop.

I'm just saying, beware. If the fact that this is the very party who got us into this mess in the first place doesn't scare you enough to keep them out of power consider this question: Who built the machines? Baltar?

Mwoooahahahahahah!!!!!!

Public Service Announcement

This year autumn trotted out a truly frightening Jack Frost Halloween costume that robbed many people in our town of their electricity, dial tones, tree limbs, school days, and even (the horror!) trick-or-treating.

But there was one bright spot: I have a new favorite candy bar.

I know! Old dog, new trick and all that.... but it's true. In a testament to American ingenuity, those folks at Hershey pushed beyond the myriad of tried and true combinations of caramel, nougat, peanut butter, chocolate, nuts, and miscellaneous crunchy stuff and produced perfection. I present the Take 5.



The Wikipedia entry for the Take 5* says that it was introduced in December 2004. I weep for the lost years.

* I'm always tempted to be snide-- even if it's just in my own head-- about the breadth (and ridiculousness) of topics on Wikipedia. But then I realize that I'm the one searching for more information on dopey minutiae. So, thank you to the person who felt compelled, and had the time, to research and write about a candy bar. And to the others who actually edited, corrected and added to that information. (Can I snark on them? Hmmm...)