Moved!

Just a quick note to inform anyone interested that I've started a new blog:  Dirty Pantaloons.  Come and visit over there!

Date Night

Noah and I were driving home from a date tonight, and we were discussing my foul mouth. Noah's always telling me to "Watch your language!", to which I usually reply with a "Fuck you!".

Noah: You should really just start saying "F-word!" whenever you need to say fuck. When you stub your toe, yell "F-word!"; when the dog won't stop barking, mutter "F-word-ing dog."

Me: I really don't think I could do that. I could probably substitute "f-ing" or "freaking", but I'm not going to say "f-word" in the midst of a highly volatile moment.

Noah: Well, that would be better than just saying "fuck".

Me: Not really. Because the kids don't know not to say "freaking" or "f-ing"; they'd be out in the cul-de-sac with all the puritanical moms kicking their fallen bicycle shouting "f-ing bike!". And that wouldn't look too good. At least they KNOW not to say "fuck". So really, I think saying "fuck" is quite a bit more classy.

Noah: Yeah, as long as you shout it out as you're walking into your trailer.

I'm It.

I went to read Holly's blog today and found that I've been tagged, and now I'm supposed to:

-Pick up the nearest book.
-Turn to page 123.
-Find the 5th sentence.
-Copy down the next three sentences.
-Pass it along.

Well, balls. I don't have a book near me, and I'm too lazy to get up and walk to the next room, where there is an insane quantity of books waiting to be read. Instead, I just scrolled through my book, finding page 123, and followed the instructions.

Gone from his lips and teeth was the blood my kick to his face had drawn. He wore dark shades over his eyes. Doubting that he would be allowed through security and customs with those on, I wondered how he would explain away his gruesome eyes.

Ugh, that first sentence is awkward. Well, in reality, the whole book is awkward. Blach.

I dunno who to tag ... How about Jen? She's on partial bedrest and a book freak. She hasn't updated her blog since the beginning of time, though, so I don't know that she'll follow through. I could also tag Nicole. And I think that's about it for the people that I "know" who blog. So, unless I can tag Dooce or Perez Hilton, I think I'm done.

Why I Would Further Test My Waning Sanity, I Don't Know

So, Noah and I have been going back and forth for, like, a YEAR about whether we want another kid or not. We really like the idea of a large family, but for crying out loud, we also really like the reality that the two kids we have are now old enough that they don't go try to kill themselves by doing something completely stupid every moment we turn around. We no longer have to fish door-stop tips out of almost-choking throats; we don't worry for a moment that our kids are going to shove their tongues into the light sockets while we're anxiously taking our two-minute showers. We don't even have to lock our children in their rooms for the night anymore to prevent 5 a.m. wakeups scurrying down to the kitchen to lick chocolate off of a butcher knife. Really, life with a six-year-old and a four-year-old is bliss compared to those anxious years of screaming and lobotomies that preceded this time in our lives. So why the hell would we want to do it again?

I remember Ava when she was born; I remember looking down at her and marveling at her perfection. I remember thinking then that this certainly couldn't be my last time embracing that miracle as her little hand wove around my pinky and her toothless mouth smacked together. And, oh God! The smell of a baby's breath ... could there be a better scent in the world? And then she was six months, chubby and gooey, giving me open-mouthed kisses and screaming with delight whenever I came into view. I remember telling my neighbor then that I couldn't imagine ever STOPPING having kids; I was worried that I'd just get addicted to that delicious, consuming love you have for your baby.

Oh, even rehashing all that has my ovaries shooting off eggs like they're in some video game of fertility. Conceive, and you will save the princess!

Today, I spent a LOT of time with my kids, actually paying attention to them for once instead of shooing them out the door first thing in the morning with instructions not to return until lunch time. We played games this morning, and then they got NEW TOYS! in the mail today which I was required to assemble and then affix about 30,000 stickers. My kids shit their pants in anticipation of the new goodies, and I think their over-excitement sucked my brain of the last tiny bit of sanity that was left linking my neural pathways together. My 315 p.m. I was done, and I had to instruct my children not to talk to me anymore. And then we had to pick Ava up from ballet and take Grace to violin and, by God Lord Almighty, when that was done it was time for swimming. We met Noah at the pool, and I just pulled up alongside him, instructing my kids to "Get out! Get out, get out, get out!" When they did, I sped away, came home, and ate a bag of chocolate chips. Then I sat on the porch in the 88 degree sun and relished that the screaming coming from my neighbor's house did not source from the mouth of one of my children.

Considering my brain shrinks into a dried-up prune when I spend extended one-on-two time with my kids, maybe that should be a sign that we're done? Ugh, if only there wasn't the actual pregnancy or the toddler-hood, then it really wouldn't be that hard a decision. I could totally have another child if it just miraculously appeared on the doorstop at the same time as my breasts started producing milk, and then, after a year, instead of turning two it turned four and was potty trained with a reasonable sense of self-preservation, then I could totally do it. But the pregnancy, the fatness, and BLACH! The toddler-hood! Now I've got the willies.

Self-Inflicted Abuse in the Form of Potato Chip Over-Consumption

So, I've refrained from posting here for SO long because I've simply felt like I haven't had anything to say. But then I read a post from Dooce regarding on how she's going on the same 21-day cleanse diet and how when it's over she might just give up meat for good because of all the animal mistreatment that occurs in the meat industry. It moved me so that I just HAD to leave a comment, and what was originally going to be a simple little comment turned into this:

We gave up meat in January ... it's been totally easy except for that one time when I bought a wedge of salami cheddar without thinking and ate some for lunch ... every day ... for three days in a row. I didn't even THINK that salami = meat, but when I finally DID realize it, I was a bit repulsed by the fact that I could be so NEGLIGENT. Anyway, what got me started was the book Skinny Bitch. You wanna read some stuff about animal mistreatment to get you to stick with the no meat stuff, read that book. Blach. Anyway, no meat has been super easy to stick to. No coffee has NOT been easy, and FORGET about going no deserts. I feel great when I'm off of them, but then they keep sneaking back into my diet until it's a daily thing and I feel like a big stinky turd all day long. WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?

Obviously, all this notion of writer's block / having nothing really to say is simply in my head because I'm apparently still as long winded as ever.

On that note, I have some more to say about my treatment of my body. On Mother's Day, Noah surprised me with the gift of a personal trainer, something that I've been coveting but never thought we could afford (we really can't). I used to be super in shape ... we're talking 6-pack abs here, but in the past twelve years, I've laid off the intense 2-hour workouts four days a week, had two children, and have eaten like shit. Consequently, my size four physique of yesteryear has ballooned up to a size 10. I haven't laid off the working out completely, but I did pretty much cut out the weight training and have simply focused on the cardio aspect of my fitness. I have sweet cardiovascular endurance, but my ass jiggles four feet behind me when I run.

The past two years have been really frustrating for me. Admittedly, I have a titch of a sugar addiction, and that's caused some problems. My blood sugar has rebelled on me, and I know for a fact that when I fall into a bout of shitty eating, I'm falling into pre-diabetic conditions. But even when I cut out the sweets and run 3 miles four days a week, I was seeing NO fat loss. Talk about frustrating! Why should I bust my ass when I don't see any results? I've been super pissed and bitter about the whole thing, and I think this is what finally caused Noah to splurge and invest in a personal trainer for me ... because my bitching was about to send him over the edge.

So, for the past three weeks, my trainer has re-introduced me to weight training and has also told me long, slow, boring cardio (read: 3 mile runs) are NOT the way to lose fat. I've been instructed to replace the repetitive running with doing intervals (sprint/walks or sprint/slow runs). The result: I'm more physically fit than I have been in a long time, I'm seeing more muscle, and I'm confident again that what I'm doing is actually HELPING.

The problem is that I've also been eating like SHIT for the past few weeks. And I'm wondering WHY I do this to myself? Why do I load up on processed shit, even if it's "all-natural", when it makes me feel like a bloated beluga whale? I don't buy the whole self-sabotage theory; that's not what's going on here. I think what's going on is I really like potato chips, and when I get a craving for something, I become helpless and powerless until it's satisfied.

I'm putting this out there to become more accountable. For YEARS, I've been over-consumed with my body and my appearance and my health, and yet, nothing has changed in those years of obsessiveness. I told myself that this summer it was all going to change, and although I feel like I'm making strides with my fitness, I have sabotaged that with my nutrition. And that's got to change. Because we recently got a sweet white trash pool for the backyard, and I need to get my beluga ass into it this summer and feel good while doing so.

Overheard

The girls are playing ... apparently, they're enemies. They started out with Ava saying:

"I'm gonna kick you in da FACE!"

Then they started talking weaponry:

Ava: I have a SWORD!
Grace: I have swords AND guns!

Then they started expanding their arsenals beyond conventional weaponry:

Ava: I have a TORNADO that's NICE to me!
Grace: Well, I have TEN-HUNDRED tornadoes!
Ava: I have FIFTEEN tornadoes!
Grace: Fifteen is LESS than ten-hundred.
Ava: My horse has boison in it.
Grace: Boison? OhMyGosh!

A boisonous horse is hard to beat ... more so, apparently, than even ten-hundred tornadoes.

The Trip - Otherwise Known As the Longest Post Ever

We got back a few days ago from a trip Noah and I have deemed our "honeymoon", despite the little fact that we've already been married for eight years and have two sweet, chewy children that are the byproduct of our holy union. BUT, we've never really been on a "real" trip by our lonesomes do to the fact that we've always been way too poor. So this was it, folks.

Very early on Thursday, April 3rd, we headed down to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We booked the trip through Travelocity and indeed believed ourselves to have procured a sweet all-inclusive deal. We came to this conclusion because the hotel that we picked had ALL-INCLUSIVE printed just like that, in caps, in the headline, and it not only had this ALL-INCLUSIVE information attached to the hotel name when we initially chose the hotel, but it also had this little tidbit included in the hotel name when we FINISHED picking the hotel and PAID for the trip. So, I dunno, we thought it was an ALL-INCLUSIVE deal.

It wasn't.

We arrived in Mexico a little after noon on Thursday. Because we are idiots and looked around gape-mouthed upon arriving at the airport, we were subsequently harassed by no fewer than three Mexican sales-people attempting to sell us shit we either a) have already bought or b) had no time for because we already bought a bunch of tours in the aforementioned (a). I really didn't want to be a rude American, but BY GOD. You cannot get past these people unless you storm right past them in a self-righteous American tempest.

An hour and a half later, we were on our already-paid-for transport to the hotel. We were beginning to think it would never happen.

Checking into the hotel however posed quite the challenge when it was discovered that no, in fact, our ALL-INCLUSIVE deal was NOT all-inclusive after all. The hotel staff told us, and I quote, "We frequently have this problem with Travelocity," and they recommended we contact them.

Did you know that you can't dial out from your cell phone in Mexico unless you have an international calling plan? Yeah, well we didn't. Did you also know that calling from a hotel phone and calling from a pay phone to a 1-800 number does not work in Mexico for some God-forsaken reason? Or I dunno ... maybe it DOES work, but it certainly doesn't work when calling Travelocity. Did you know that the only way to get ahold of these fuckers is to have someone from your husband's work miraculously call him on his cell phone and then having that person call Travelocity and conferencing them in? We spent an hour and a half on said conference call, finally talked to a manager at Travelocity, and he told us to go up to the hotel desk and talk to "Cynthia". This manager (whose name was Rick) claimed that he had talked to her and straightened everything out.

Did you know that when you located a Cynthia at the front desk that she had never been on the phone with anybody, knew nothing about your situation, and looked to believe that you were in fact a couple of pain-in-the-ass, scamming Americans?

Cynthia's manager finally took pity on us and called Travelocity from the front desk phone and allowed us to use it. I spent the rest of the vacation wondering if we were going to be charged for this phone call. The hotel charges $.36 a minute, and we were on the phone for TWO AND A HALF HOURS.

By the time we were done NOT straightening everything out but determined to go ahead and have a fabulous vacation anyway, it was almost six. My husband and I had each had two strong Mexican margaritas and tickets to a "beach party" thrown by the hotel because we simply didn't have it in us to search out any other entertainment at that point.

Seeing the ocean and the sun and the beach was seriously what I needed after a long, hellacious winter in Minnesota. Oh, God, it was like a freaking wet dream. We had dinner with our feet in the sand and just relished being somewhere warm.

On Friday morning, we swam with the dolphins, which seriously rocked. On Friday afternoon, I procured a second-degree sunburn and got a brutal "massage" from a Mexican masseuse on a cliff over the sea. On Friday night, we took a boat out to a remote beach and again had a candlelight dinner in the sand followed by a Mexican tribal show. I also had a fever of about 102 from the lovely sunburn I received from stupidly not wearing sunscreen for 45 minutes. I thought I might die on that remote beach.

This is me, being "kissed" by a parrot before our boatride and before my terrible fever. Lookit that sunburnt chest - hot!

On Saturday, Noah and I gimped our way into some clothes (he also got a severe sunburn) and had breakfast overlooking the ocean. That afternoon, we took part in the Canopy Tour, taking zip lines through the jungle. It was pretty fun, although not nearly as fun as it would have been if my skin didn't feel like it was going to burst off my body.

During the Canopy Tour, I noticed that my ankles were rather swollen. When we got back to the hotel and I examined my lower half more closely, I found my ENTIRE legs to so swollen that they looked like they were going to pop. I used Noah's phone to search the Internet to find out I probably had what's called edema. It was seriously uncomfortable, even painful whenever I had to stand, but it was DAMN sexy, so who's to complain?

To temporarily offset the fact that they totally ripped us off, Travelocity placated us by paying for two all-inclusive days on our trip. Saturday was one of those days, and we spent the evening drinking cocktails at the poolside cantina. What else are you supposed to do when you look like an overripe tomato oozing out juices?

On Sunday, we were supposed to take out a boat and explore remote beaches and fishing villages and go snorkeling. Sunday was also Daylight Savings Time in Mexico, so the clocks were set ahead an hour unbeknownst to us. We missed the departure of our snorkeling adventure and didn't mind a bit, considering our pathetic disposition. We had breakfast again overlooking the ocean and spent the majority of the day taking it easy in the shade. We also took some time to visit the Flea Market and picked up a bunch of gifts.

Front of the Flea Market

Sunday night we headed out to the lighthouse in Puerto Vallarta for some drinks on the recommendation of my neighbor. What a cool spot; the views were amazing!

Then we gimped our parched asses down the pier for some dinner at this place:



Where I took these pictures:

These two dudes sang us a sweet little Mexican song right by our outside table. It was the only Mexican music I heard on our entire trip. Everything else was Americanized.

A little dog in Mexico. Apparently, they grow 'em much smaller there.

Ahhhhh, greenery!

Lovely balcony. The place next door was for sale ....

Lovely Noah. He wouldn't be so lovely the following day.

We ordered some cervasas, which came with their very own shots of tequila. I'm a pussy, so I didn't drink mine. Noah did, and the next day he suffered severe explosive diarrhea ALL DAY LONG. Coincidence? He also had a fucking huge-ass portion of fish for dinner, bathed in a lobster & shrimp sauce. Reminder: we've been vegetarians since January. Noah's been having some fish periodically, but this was seriously a monster-sized portion, taking up half the platter. So, maybe that caused his gut issues. Regardless, I'm glad I stuck to my no-tequila, no-meat-including-fish diet, because I think if I would have been stuck on the toilet with a bloated belly AND bloated, edemic legs, my head would have spun around and I would have turned into Satan right then and there.

So, on Monday, the day of the diarrhea, we took off in the morning on our Sea Safari, which really wasn't much of a sea safari at all but more of a boat ride to a nice, secluded beach at a fishing village and laying on said beach for most of the day. I think the sea safari is actually pretty much the same thing as the snorkeling thing that we missed on Sunday, so we were even less upset to have missed it. We had the opportunity to go snorkeling on the sea safari as well, but there were a shitload of jellyfish all over in the water at every spot we stopped to check (they told us it was like this on Sunday too), plus the water was so fucking cold that you would have had to have balls of steal to jump in the drink. I, incidentally, do not have balls of steal, since I am, in fact, a woman. A woman who doesn't like to freeze her ass off. This is the reason I left the frozen tundra of Minnesota and came to Mexico in the first place. I like to be WARM.

Here are some shots I got on the boatride out to the beach:

We had the opportunity to kayak as well but since Noah was all doubled over with his diarrhea, we skipped that too and just lazed on the idyllic beach (in the shade). It was so beautiful. The beach was located at this tiny little fishing village, a village with no accessible roads leading to it. You had to hike up the mountain in order to get to a road, or else take a water taxi in order to leave the village. We hiked through the village and the surrounding jungle for a bit, and the guide was nice enough to take this fucking hideous picture of Noah and I (see below). You can't really tell from the picture that Noah is about to shit his pants, but you can tell by the picture that when someone squats to take a picture of me that I have altogether way too many chins from that angle. I seriously don't look like that in every day life. At least, I hope I don't. This tree in the picture is significant somehow ... but I don't know exactly why.

This is the little fishing village/remote beach that we landed at for the day:

God, these blogger pictures suck. I should just use flickr. There are chickens in the bottom of this picture. Chickens! Running free!

The mules and horses the villagers use to trek up the mountain to the road if needed.

Holy balls ... all sorts of ugly here. Lookit those chins! Nice angel, Mr. Tour Guide.

After returning from Monday's adventure, we cleaned up and headed out to take a customer of mine's recommendation for dinner. We were trying to decide between a few places, so we asked the concierge what he thought. He blabbered something and seemed relatively knowledgeable about both places, so we asked which one had the best entrees for "vegetarianos". He looked at us like we had three heads. Not eating meat? Who would conceive of such a thing?

He then proclaimed that he had just the spot, ordered us a taxi, and told him in rapid Spanish where to go. I don't think the taxi driver knew what the fuck he was talking about because after circling the downtown area twice, he finally stopped some pedestrian and asked him where to go. We ended up getting dropped somewhere and just walked around until we found a spot. I felt like I was carrying around a couple of waterbeds instead of legs, and Noah was still trying not to shit himself by this point, so we stopped at the first place we found, Los Xitomates. We lucked out! They specialized in dealing with radical vegetarians like us and had a fabulous menu to boot! The ambiance left a little to be desired (I was really looking forward to some actual Mexican music instead of the American shit I kept hearing all over the place ... this place had no music at all!). But the food! SO good!

Me waiting for our taxi to take us to dinner. They had a huge-ass cage with parrots (!) in it outside our hotel. I talked to them daily and was going to attempt to smuggle one home in my suitcase, but Noah said no. Notice the lack of multiple chins in this picture. Also notice my lack of make-up, since putting on make-up at this point only led to all my skin shafing off under my touch.

This is some catholic cathedral in the downtown area that we walked past on the way to dinner.

Because we weren't exactly operating at 100%, we went back to the hotel after dinner, got in our jammies, and read in bed. We were really looking forward to being home the following day and seeing our girls ... and our dog ... and our cats.

The flight back into the States on Tuesday morning went off without a hitch. We were supposed to catch a connecting flight in Dallas to Minneapolis, but after we landed, we became privy to the information that American Airlines is a bunch of negligent assholes and have been flying people all over the continent on planes that two weeks prior did not pass an FAA inspection. And, instead of fixing the deficiency, they ignored it and tried to skirt by the issue. Not only did they not pass an inspection two weeks ago about this problem, but this was a problem that they've known needed to be fixed for 18 months! An FAA inspector was back checking the planes in Dallas on Tuesday and found 9 of the 10 planes he spot checked to still have the deficiency. American Airlines had to ground all of their MD80 aircraft, which, coincidentally, was what we were scheduled to fly on the whole time.

After deboarding our flight from Mexico, grabbing our luggage, and passing immigration, we were lucky enough to stand in the Guinness Book of World Records longest line for three hours before we reached the "ticketing agents", otherwise known as "helpless, non-sympathetic assholes".

We received flights for the following morning into first St. Louis, and then Minneapolis. Then we were told there were NO MORE HOTEL ROOMS AVAILABLE in my area. I shit my pants right then and there, and when my head started spinning around on my shoulders, the lady was nice enough to look back at her computer. "Oh, here's a room that just opened up," she said. "I don't have any more shuttle vouchers, so you'll have to find your own transportation to get there."

Dude, whatever. We got a room, and we ran off to find a taxi. The people in line RIGHT IN FRONT OF US got a room in the SAME hotel, and incidentally, their ticketing agent printed them off a shuttle voucher as well. I guess the printer must have run out of ink or something; that's the only reason I see that we couldn't also get a shuttle voucher. But I was happy just not to have to spend the night in the damned airport drinking their shitty airport-brand bottled water. We paid for our shuttle with the knowledge that we are supposedly going to get reimbursed from American Airlines later.

At check in, they never even bothered to ask for a credit card, so we got some sweet-ass room service and pigged out while watching the second half of Biggest Loser on TV. Ahhhhh, American TV, how we missed it.

At 5am, our wakeup call rang and I stumbled into the shower while Noah checked our new flight online. Guess what? Cancelled.

We were automatically booked for a direct flight later that afternoon, in First Class no less. Also cancelled.

So, we spent 45 minutes on the phone with AA again at 5am, finally procuring a flight in the early afternoon with Northwest Airlines on this tiny little plane. And thus our work was finished, and we rested from all the work American Airlines had created and made.

I've read that over 3,100 flights were cancelled last week due to the airline's negligence to fix a deficiency they had known about for over 18 months. I'm honestly thankful that we got home when we did. I heard the staff at the Crowne Plaza, where we stayed, advising it's guests to not check out simply to go stand in the Guinness-Book line at the airport again because they probably wouldn't be so lucky as to get a room again. The number of people this affected was simply staggering, and at the beginning of our 5am call, we were told to expect it to take two days to get a flight home. We were very lucky indeed.

Overall - a nice trip, but I think we'll go somewhere more remote (not in a big city), wear more sunscreen, and eat less fish next time. But seriously, beggars can't be choosers. I'm just happy that we got to go ANYWHERE, despite all the problems we encountered.