You Sure It Doesn't Strike Twice?

House hit by lightening. Not fun.
We lost power for six and half hours. Six and half hours of no lights, no sanity, no air conditioning. When the power came back on, I discovered:

My computer is now fried. I am now typing this on a borrowed laptop at the library. Not only is this thing slow, but I think it is also giving me scurvy.

In addition my computer, the storm also fried half of the electrical outlets in the house, our oven, our washing machine, our garage door openers, my router, my modem, a telephone, a television, our satellite and all of my patience.

Random

Quick post today- got my hands full. With what? Funny you should ask.

Had a new friend over today. They just moved here from Chicago, and she looks just like I did last summer. I talked her off the ledge and told her the heat does go away.... in December.

Why do I buy toys? Annie's new favorite thing to do is to make "snowballs" out of Matt's socks. We now have snow all over the house--- argyle, stripey, athletic sock snow.

Why do I buy them clothes? My kids refuse to wear anything at all. I would to if it was publicly acceptable. Nothing like your birthday suit when it's 95+ with 100% humidity.

Floating Bio-Hazards

We tried to go swimming yesterday. By saying "tried" I mean that we got everyone in swimsuits, packed up some sandwiches, slathered everyone up with sunscreen, loaded everyone in the car, and then drove to the pool- only to discover it didn't open for another hour. This should have been my first clue we were not meant to do this.

After an hour, the pool opens, and we head inside. After an hour of play, my Lucy is ready to give it up and take a nap- and she lets us know by going completely boneless and wailing a high pitched scream that makes every dog in a 3 mile vicinity shake their ears. I'm so preoccupied with her, I don't notice the hullabaloo going on at the pool.

Suddenly, I see parents all around me, scurrying up their things and grabbing their cranky kids and making for the exit. I see the lifeguards drag out a huge vacuum, and start fighting with each other over who was going to use it. Then, my husband walks over and says "Hey, the pool's closed. Some kid took a huge poo and it will take 45 minutes to clean it up."

My question is- if it only takes 45 minutes to clean that up, who the hell goes in the pool afterwards? Not me! It will be WEEKS before I venture there again. After telling Annie for the umpteenth time that "no, you may not go over and see the poopie", we grab our things and go. On our way out the door, we see parents, in their swimsuits, lathered with sunscreen, just walking in. The guy at the desk tells them "Sorry, due to a floating bio-hazard, the pool will be closed for a hour." We giggled about that all the way home.

Summer Time

Wow. I haven't had a summer like this since I was twelve. Since summer camp ended- we've spent every day at the pool, or the park, or someone's backyard. We pack our lunches in the morning, slather ourselves in sunscreen, and then go get dirty. REALLY DIRTY.

Today, I had to put the kids' bathing suits in the dryer when they napped. We spent all morning at a neighborhood pool, and then went to a backyard "messy day" birthday party for someone in our playgroup. This was the coolest party- their backyard was filled with a series of inflatable pools, watertables filled with coolwhip, a "bubble" station, a slip-n-slide and their play equipment. Annie's eyes almost popped out of her head when we first walked in.

I spent so much time in the pool this morning, that my fingers got all wrinkly and prune-like. They haven't felt like that for years. Four years ago, I would be in an air conditioned office, working on retail software. Four years ago, I wore makeup and cute clothes. I went out to lunch with friends every day. I had no idea what Gymboree, Crocs, Justin Roberts, or Yo Gabba Gabba was. I drove a Passat, and vowed to never own a mini-van. Times have changed, and with my wrinkly fingers- I grabbed my 2 sun-loving girls, and hugged them. Then I threw their dirty asses in the bathtub.

Open Up and Say What?

I took Annie to the dentist today. He's the best guy in town, and it took me forever to get the appointment. This place is amazing. Murals of "Where the Wild Things Are" adorn the walls, and every toy in creation is in the waiting room. The staff all wear 1950's bowling shirts and converse sneakers. I felt like singing some Four Tops and calling everyone Daddio.

Annie is a champ. She lays down, and lets them clean her teeth and put "bubble" (fluoride) on. We sit through a cheesy video on caring for your teeth (raisins are bad snacks? Who knew?) and then Lucy, bored with watching some kid get his teeth brushed, finds the pack of stray Scooby Doo fruit snacks in my purse. She immediately starts whimpering for them, and I realize what a faux pas it is to feed my kid nasty fruit snacks while learning about dental hygiene. I try and distract her with a bag of goldfish. "What's that Lucy? You want a snack? A snack of Goldfish crackers?" Lucy doesn't buy it. "I WANT FRUIT SNACKS! FRUIT SNACKS MOMMY!" My normally calm, sedate child is a whining, crying mess for the rest of the appointment.

When we finally get to meet the dentist- I realize why all of my girlfriends, and my Moms group, and Annie's preschool recommend this guy. He's hot. He's got the whitest teeth imaginable, and after he examines Annie, he encourages me to sit down so we can talk for a bit. I'm not normally flustered, but it's difficult to look Dr. Suave in the eye- I am so blinded by his perfectly straight, extremely white teeth. Finally, I blush and interrupt him and say something so intelligent- like "Wow! You have really white teeth!"

On our way out, I hear Dr. Suave greet his next patient. I overhear him say "Are there any concerns you'd like to share about Harrison's teeth?" And then I hear a woman say, "Well, not really- but Harrison is interested in whitening his teeth." I sneak a look at Harrison, and I kid you not Dear Reader- but this kid is like, eight years old. Dr. Suave then asks Harrison if he is familiar with the show "Extreme Makeover" and I realize it is time for me to get the hell out of dodge.

So True

"Mommy? What is this?" Annie asks, holding up a long tube at the checkout stand in the grocery store.

"That's beef jerky. You want to try some?" I ask. Annie shakes her head up and down, and I toss it on the conveyor belt.

"You know who loves beef jerky? Uncle Billy." I continue, while I open the package and give Annie her first taste.

"You know who else loves beef jerky?" asks Annie. I look at her quizzically.

"Dogs." says Annie, and she spits it out.

Stormy Weather

Today I'm running errands. Nothing fun--- batteries, bottled water and canned goods. I'm still trying to get used to this whole hurricane business. We're not going to be hit directly (thank God) but they are telling us to keep our tanks full and be ready, just in case. We should get some decent sized tropical storms---- which wouldn't be so bad, unless the power goes out and then I last all of thirty seconds without air conditioning.

In other news, my husband has been working a ton to meet a deadline. He got up at 4:30am, on Saturday and Sunday, and yesterday, after Annie asked him if he "lived at work" (I didn't pay her to say it, I swear!) he took his prophetic 3 year old swimming at the pool.

An old dear friend of mine called me today. We used to work together, and he moved to China. I haven't spoken to him in a year, and it was so good to hear his voice. Made me laugh though when he was describing a mutual acquaintance, and he said "she didn't look sexy, she didn't put herself out there- she was just, such a Mom." Ah yes, the Mom club requires one to check their attractiveness at the door- I really need to remember to put some mascara on and make an effort with my hair- humidity and tropical storms be damned.

Fonzie Mommy

• Some days, I feel my life as a stay at home Mom is diminished. My day can be a never ending cycle of unloading the dishwasher, changing diapers, folding laundry and refereeing. But then, there are certain times where I'm reminded how many nuances go along with being a Mom.
  
  It was a school night, but typically, yours truly was having chef's-block at 5pm, and couldn't figure out what to make for dinner. My hubby graciously suggested we pick him up at work and go grab a pizza. The kids were tuckered out- but after weighing tired kids against dirty dishes, tired kids lost- and I threw caution to the wind and headed out.
  
  My kids are obsessed with their Crocs. They can take them on and off at will, and when I'm feeling generous- I buy them lots of these bits of nonsense to decorate them. When we got to the pizza place, I really needed to use the restroom- so I took the baby and hightailed it inside. After Lucy washed her hands for the fifteenth time, we finally made it into the restaurant, but found no sign of the rest of my family. My cell phone rang.
  
  "You need to get out here now." My usually calm, controlled husband said in a panicky voice. I could hear wailing screams behind him. After Matt assured me Annie was still physically intact, we raced outside.
  
  There's my daughter, laying down beside the car, sobbing uncontrollably. After questioning Matt- the only thing he could tell me was "he tried to help her put on her shoes." Crocs have this adjustable little strap- you can either wear them like clogs, or move the strap to the back for more support. Annie hates having the strap in the back. I forgot to mention this vital piece of information to my frazzled husband. That got me thinking- there's plenty more where this came from. I should document these Fonzie-Mommy moments in case I'm abducted by aliens and Granny has to come help run the show.
  .
• The Cinderella pink sippy cup is only to be used for chocolate milk, first thing in the morning. It is highly inappropriate if you use this at any other time of day, for any other liquids.
• It takes a few tries to get Lucy in her shoes. She'll dangle her toe and yell "Wrong foot! Wrong foot!" a few times before finally putting them on.
• When you are snuggling Annie at night, when she suddenly sits up and flips her pillow over, this means she's about to fall asleep.
• If Annie tells you her stomach hurts- she's got to poop.
• If the kids are unusually quiet- something is amiss. Usually, this something involves the bathroom sink and most of the brand new bottle of soap.
• "Finding Nemo" freaks Annie out. She's petrified of sharks, but Lucy loves them. Go figure.

I'm sure there are a million more- but I'm curious- do you have any Fonzie-Mommy tips to share?

Nice What Oil Money Can Do....

This town has a lot of money. I've written before about the "energy" moms at my kids' preschool, and I did make friends with someone last year who works in petroleum. They've got a 6,000 square foot home built in 1920- and she has an au pair from Brasil (we all think she's nuts- the au pair sunbathes topless) and a housekeeper around full time.

The only person topless around our house is my 3 year old. I'm a Bargain Betty- I love outlet shopping, buying things on sale and stretching a buck as far as it can go. I don't like to think of myself as cheap, per se, but with a husband finishing his career training, and student loans up to our eyeballs, I like to be fiscally creative.

That's why, I was really surprised today when I had my first informal board meeting at preschool. When I got the phone call asking me if I would join their Early Childhood Committee, it felt like I was being asked to join the cool kids. My husband, who shudders whenever he has to put the kids to bed by himself, couldn't contain his glee when I called him with the news. Despite the monthly meetings at night- Matt had visions of this ensuring our kids would get the cool teachers (all of them are cool, so this was pointless) but it is nice knowing the ins and outs of what's going on.

So today, they ask if I can head up getting the t-shirts for our big fundraiser concert. "Sure!" I say, thinking to myself- who would want to buy a t-shirt for a fundraiser? That's when they tell me they've hired Justin Roberts to sing at preschool. I made a complete ass of myself by squealing "JUSTIN ROBERTS? The guy who sings D-O-G? The guy who plays on Jack's Big Music Show? THAT JUSTIN ROBERTS?"

Two very important lessons I learned after the meeting:
1. They are not letting me anywhere near Justin Roberts when he gets here.
2. I really, really need to get out more.

Erin Go Bragh

I'm half Irish, but my Irishness is overpowering- and consumes up much of my ancestral identity. (Which is why I wanted to name one of my girls Fiona, but Matt refused- afraid of too many Shrek jokes). I make a mean soda bread, hang out at Kinsale- NYC's coolest Irish pub (and where the NYFD celebrates their own St. Paddy's day) but I am not fond of tropical storms named Erin.

We've got some rain. Lots of rain. Bounding, booming sounds of thunder that knock out my satellite and force my kids to watch Disney movies. (Mary Poppins is currently teaching my kids the importance of having cod oil before bed). Erin is too nice a name for a tropical storm- what about Esther? Or Esmerelda? Or Earnest? Come to think of it, most E-names are rather non-threatening- perhaps we should skip this letter all together. Oh well, I'll have a nice D-named hurricane to worry about soon enough. Can November 30th come any sooner?

I'll be back tomorrow if we don't float away.

Smells Like Funk

Had a few friends over for a playdate today. Got up early, made the house look like no one actually lived here, and then dragged the kids to Starbucks for a vanilla latte (por moi) and pumpkin bread for my girls. We did a mad dash at the grocery store to pick up some refreshments, then made it home in time to greet our friends.

That's when I smelled it. Our playroom was exhibiting an odor (not like yesterday's poop disaster)--- an odor that smelled like rotten milk. Thinking my littlest one may have dribbled some milk on the carpet, I Febreezed the entire playroom--- to no avail. By now, the doorbell is ringing and I put my game face on and answered the door.

After everyone arrived, I let them know that I was aware of the funk, just hadn't been able to locate the source yet. Since I only make friends with the kind of people that occasionally have funk in their homes too- my compadres laughed, and joined the search. We solicited the help of 2 three year old girls, two almost-two year olds, a 16 month old boy that refuses to walk, and an eight month old cutie patootie that makes me want to steal him away and hide him in my pot belly stomach. Then, BINGO! The offensive, and forgotten, sippy cup of God-knows-how-old milk was located behind a wicker basket of toys. After their intensive search, the kids resumed their business of fighting over our crazy coupe toy car. All was well.

Poop Interrupted

So, awhile back I wrote about how my stubborn little Annie was getting in trouble at school. I panicked and scheduled an appointment with a child psychologist that was on the referral sheet my pediatrician gave me when we moved in. After meeting with my pediatrician, she talked me off the ledge and assured me a psychologist was definitely overkill. She thinks Annie is spirited, and bored in school, and would benefit from a Montessori program- which is food for thought when we move. But, because I'm neurotic, when the psychologist called to say they had a cancellation and could see me the next day, I went.

What a sham. I paid $250 for an "assessment' that I could have gotten off of babycenter for free. The whole hour, the psychologist basically told me that I needed to enroll Annie in a playgroup (i.e. group therapy- for 3 year olds! Ridiculous) to dampen her controlling will. When I asked what kind of other kids would be in this "playgroup"---- (no offense here folks,) what she described were short-school-bus freaks. Oh, did I mention this playgroup is not covered by insurance and would cost $500 a month?

After sharing this with Annie's preschool director- she agreed that this was ridiculous. My kid simply loves attention- both good, and bad. She's also a bit controlling, which means she'll grow up to be a very successful person like my mother-in-law (who calls Annie "Hellfire 3" by the way). There's a new program, sponsored by a local university, that likes to work with spirited 3 and 4 year olds, to help them adjust in school. I thought this sounded interesting- and our home visit was today.

The loveliest lady paid us a visit this afternoon. She came bearing gifts- pamphlets, case studies and a dvd for us to watch. Annie immediately tried to befriend her, and after wowing her with her tales of Winnie the Pooh, Annie excused herself to go potty. As we continued our discussion--- horrendous sounds of bowel explosions started coming from our bathroom. At first, I nervously giggled, and explained to the woman that we had recently finished potty training. As the sounds continued, intermingled with vehement replies from Annie that "everything was a-ok", I said a quick goodbye to our visitor and shuffled her out the door.

As I walked down the hallway, I was overcome by a stench that reminded me of a drunken spring break in Mexico. My Annie- my beautiful, adorable, imaginative Annie- for the FIRST TIME IN HER LIFE, decided to finger paint the bathroom with her poop- DURING A BEHAVIOR ASSESSMENT. Thank God the woman left before I found this, because my shrieks of horror would have definitely influenced her impression of our home, don't you think?

Good Times

We don't get out much. We tend to have people over to our house, and after today's field trip, I now understand why. A guy that Matt did his residency with is now practicing medicine in our town. We went to his wedding in San Diego- and they are a really fun couple. They recently bought a house with a pool, and invited my brood over for some splashing and barbecue.

It's important to know that this couple does not have kids. As we pulled up to their house, and saw their immaculately landscaped front yard and Leave It To Beaver street- Matt and I began to feel a little self conscious about all of the stuff we had to bring. (overflowing diaper bag with change of clothes for everyone, extra sunscreen, four beach towels, a bottle of wine, housewarming plant, a sippy cup, snack and DVD for later etc. etc. etc.) Matt fiercely whispers to me "Leave the floatie in the car. I'll come back for it later- but let's not bring that in with us now."

The floatie was the least of our worries. Upon entering, my Annie proceeds to inspect their whole house (uninvited, mind you) and announce to everyone that she was going to go poop in their bathroom. While she did her business, the hosts started serving drinks-- orange margaritas. Unbeknownst to me, they put 3 SHOTS OF TEQUILA in my husband's drink. This is where the party takes a nasty turn. We all trotted outside for some splashing time in the pool, and my husband, after his second drink, decided to take "a little nap" on the patio floor. It was 106 today folks, so fearing sunstroke, I convinced him to ahem, "nap" inside- and he laid down on their air conditioned, mudroom brick floor- next to their washing machine. FOR THREE HOURS.

What did we do in these three hours? The kids ate dinner, made mud pies in their rose garden, and stood diligently while I cleaned them off with the garden hose. We finally got Matt to join the land of the living, and were drinking coffee- when we noticed our hosts snickering to themselves. We couldn't figure out what was funny- so finally one of them pointed out to us that our older daughter was no longer wearing any pants. Or underwear. And she was sitting on their living room couch, with the beautiful white silk drapes and chic shag rug. They thought that was funny, but what struck them as even funnier was that Matt and I didn't even notice. (She's naked most of the time at home, so it's pretty much second nature by now).

Somehow, I don't think we'll be invited back anytime soon.

Late Night Cheese

Holy cow. Have you guys seen Bravo's new show Flipping Out? I was up late last night, and since I'm a Top Chef-a-holic, I was hoping to find a re-run, but stumbled across this trainwreck instead. It's basically about this gay guy in Los Angeles, who has a serious obsessive-compulsive disorder and buys fixer uppers, remodels them and then sells them. It looks like he's a serious freak, and his only friends are the gaggle of "assistants" (wanna-be actors) he pays to work for him.

On last night's episode, he makes one of his passive aggressive assistants take his cat to the vet for acupuncture. The cat gets pissed off (who wouldn't?) and you realize Los Angeles is filled with money grubbing jerks that will inflict pain on an animal in the name of making a buck. (Ah, brings back my fond college days at UCLA....) Seriously, this is television at its cheesiest, and I personally cannot wait to find the next episode.

The insensitivity of this show is mind boggling. They feature Jeff (the OCD boss-man) throwing a birthday party for his Mexican live-in maid. There she is, blindfolded, in full maid regalia, hitting a pinata with a stick. The camera then flashes to the demolition of a house, showing guys crashing a shower door in, with the former owner glumly looking on. Capitalism at its finest!

In other news, I'm hosting playgroup this afternoon. Please, please, please pray that my house makes it through this afternoon in one piece.

I Believe....

Life is quirky. I'll plan a stupendous day of fun--- Disneyland, or the beach, or silly games at the park- and unexpectedly--tantrums, back talking or a bad case of the grumpies will make everything go south. Then, there are the days that have no expectations- the days that kind of unfold and surprise you with their pleasantness.

Today was that kind of day. I was knee deep in IRS muck- collecting random bits of information from California and Texas- while trying to decipher my absentminded husband's deductions, a discombobulated move across country and a snafoo with an IRA into some reasonable cohesiveness- and my girls? They were hilarious.

We spent all day in our jammies. Unwashed and stinky- my girls transformed their pajama party into a pretend world of make believe. A current obsession with Peter Pan meant "Wendy" and not Mommy cursed at miniscule bank statements today. "Captain Hook" called in from the hospital a few times and Tinkerbell took a blessed three hour nap to never-neverland this afternoon. And Peter? My 3.5 year old, aggressively stubborn Peter Pan? She was so scrumptious- so filled with bubbled over delight that I wish I could bottle one tiny ounce of today- to uncork and savor in 11 years when she thinks I'm persona non grata.

I watched a rerun of "No Reservations" tonight- and Anthony Bourdain goes to a remote village in China. I realized that I will probably never eat a dumpling with a straw, or hold a falcon on my arm or catch fish with trained birds instead of rods. That used to depress me- to realize there was so much of the world unfolding that I would never see. But now, I realize it is not so much what you see, but how you see it. And my day? My day spent doing taxes and bullshit paperwork? My day transformed into one of those rare occasions where you stop and savor the blessings at hand. I've got a curly haired Peter Pan and a very bald Tinkerbell to thank for that one.

Holy Stat Counter, Batman!

Wow. If I knew that by posting a picture of Colin Firth dressed as Fitzwilliam Darcy would increase the traffic on my blog by a gazillion- I would have done it a long time ago. I have this little stat counter that lets me see how much traffic I get (don't worry, I can't actually see YOU, just your city and state- but what a cool idea! Nice jammies) and it's always a cool thing when I see folks from other countries.

After the Colin Firth post- Lollyblogger's passport got some action (mine, sadly to date, has only been to Canada and Mexico). A few folks in London (eat some Cadburys for me and do you guys still watch East Enders?), Australia, Romania, Russia, Italy, Canada, Mexico, Turkey (I think that was you, Katie?) and my honeymooning friends in Thailand. Also, I'm embarrassed to say, I had to look up where the Republic of Moldova was--- hello landlocked country in between the Ukraine and Romania!

In the event anyone not from the US is actually reading this, and not looking for pictures of Colin Firth or Anthony Bourdain, I feel the need to set the record straight on a few things.

Not all American women are overly endowed in the posterior, with muscular armpits and ankles. (Quite a few of us are, but I hate to stereotype).

Not everyone goes six months without acquiring the services of a babysitter. Just American mommies that are clinically insane and need some lithium and a vacation in an institution.

Not all American playdates result in the complete destruction of your humble abode- but I do recommend hiding your contraceptives in a better hiding place than a nightstand drawer. Otherwise, you'll be trying to make some very silly balloon animals.

In any event, thank you to each and every lurker that has somehow stumbled their way here, even if it was only by a google-accident. I'm having a blast with my blog- and I can't wait to get in touch with my new Texas friends from the Dallas/Ft. Worth area that graciously sent me messages--- I'm having trouble finding your email!

Oh, and for grins and chuckles- here's Colin Firth one more time:

Busy

Aack. It's Monday, and one of those Mondays that really feels like a Monday. Why?

1. I spent 3 hours at the dentist this morning. Three hours of nothing more than xrays, photos of my teeth and consultation. It was the most thorough exam I have ever had in my life. She was so competent, I felt like asking her to do a breast exam while I was there, but then, that might be kind of weird.
2. Taxes. Our taxes HAVE to be done this week. Last date for our extension, and yours truly is now the newly appointed CFO. Great job for hiding ebay purchases of gymboree clothes, really stinks when it's time to prepare for the IRS.
3. I'm suffering through a sunburn. We are usually so vigilant about sunscreen- but yesterday's trip to the beach occurred as our Coppertone sports spray was on its last legs. We mooched some sunscreen from a family nearby, but now my shoulders and back suffer the consequences. I look like I need to be taken out of a stock pot and drenched with butter.
4. Taking personality tests. (I really, really don't want to do the taxes). I'm this:
   

You Are An ENFP

The Inspirer You love being around people, and you are deeply committed to your friends.You are also unconventional, irreverent, and unimpressed by authority and rules.Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives.You use lots of colorful language and expressions. You're quite the storyteller! In love, you are quite the charmer. And you are definitely willing to risk your heart.You often don't follow through with your flirting or professed feelings. And you do break a lot of hearts. At work, you are driven but not a workaholic. You just always seem to enjoy what you do.You would make an excellent entrepreneur, politician, or journalist. How you see yourself: compassionate, unselfish, and understanding When other people don't get you, they see you as: gushy, emotional, and unfocused

What's" Your Personality Type?

House Calls....

We're home sick today- my little Lucy is nursing a fever and a summer cold. We haven't been to the pediatrician in almost 2 weeks, so I knew something would catch up with us. I'm thinking of asking Santa for doctor co-pays for Christmas- it's getting a bit ridiculous.

Anywhoo.... (what, you're bored with my HMO talk? Really?) last night, my Annie cut her foot on something. Her Daddy discovered her bleeding toe smack dab in the middle of storytime. I've always wondered if Annie understood what Matt does. She loves to go to the hospital and see him--- she asks about his patients all the time, but I've always wondered if she put it all together. Last night, with her bleeding toe- I realize she does.

As Matt started to bandage up her toe and give her a kiss, Annie started calling him "Doctor Daddy." It was hilarious. It was- "Thank you Dr. Daddy." and more of "I love you Dr. Daddy." and of course- "Dr. Daddy- you made my owie all better, and all of the red is gone." Matt has gotten many awards in his career--- he's been published in oodles of medical journals, and written textbook chapters, and saves lives on a regular basis- but somehow, I know that it was the little accolade our 3 year old gave him last night that meant the most.

Swallow This...

Today I tried a new form of torture at the gym- a class called "Chiseled". Not only did this class kick my ass in every way imaginable, but it also made me feel as if I was living out my own personal sitcom.

The teacher, is probably not a day over 65. Seriously- this lady is easily old enough to be my Mom, but that's where the comparisons end. She has a stomach flatter than my fourth grade chest, legs longer than any joke I'll ever tell and hair styled in a perfect long-haired version of senior-citizen-hottie Barbie. She's wearing a black sports bra, black boy shorts, and a sheer black flamenco scarf tied around her hips.... the fringe sways when she moves. This woman is amazing- and immediately, I start to feel like the fat girl at rush. I'm wearing a crumpled pair of yoga pants, and one of Matt's old t-shirts that says "Beer Ambassador" on the front. Trust me, not a sexy look.

This woman spends the next 60 minutes inflicting such agony, that I had to stop at certain moments and just giggle- because, what else can a person do when a 60+ Barbie starts playing French techno music and starts yelling the following:

"Do you know how many calories are in a pound of fat,ladies? 3,500. Think of that the next time you want to eat a muffin."

"Know what I do when I eat a muffin? I take a bite and spit it out- because, ladies.... you know what they always say...."Never swallow!"

Throughout the class, I learned this woman was a flight attendant for Continental, liked Aretha Franklin, and was extolling the virtues of learning to cook- so everyone around you could get fatter and make you look skinnier. (Seriously!) Her sparkly eye makeup never got smudgey, and she would put us through a torturous repetition of some inhumane movement, and start to count us down- 4-3-2- and then start to tell one of her stories involving a hot guy and a Maserati, and somehow forget that we had lost sensation in our right leg, and then resumed counting- but started back at the beginning.

After the class was done, I staggered out of the room to go and get my kids- when out of the corner of my eye, I see her- in all of her golden sparkly glory, dancing in front of the mirror. Her hair was swaying, her fringe was moving and she waved to me and said "See you Tuesday!" Maybe she will, but I'll probably eat a muffin first. And swallow it, damn it.