Excuses Excuses

Maria Kang has caused another mommy controversy on the internet these past few weeks (see here).   She posted a picture of herself in tight workout gear with her three kids next  to her.  The caption reads, “What’s Your Excuse?!”  People say it’s fat shaming, judgy, etc.  Also, she’s a bad mom for ignoring her kids to get fit.  I say patooey on the whole thing.  I just read this from Baby Sideburns (The New Rules of Mommyhood) and I completely agree.  100%.  Did you read them both?  If so, do that, then COME BACK.  Don’t get sidelined by Kim K’s engagement ring or that Joss & Main ad.

I say let each mom be each mom.  If Maria Kang can work out and be gorgeous and a good mom, rock on with her bad self.  You can’t call her a bad mom.  She’s just doing what’s right for her, and you have no idea whether she’s a bad mom or not.  You have very limited information.  This tends to piss me off (see here).

BUT, in fun, I thought I’d offer my excuses for Why Not?

  • Traveling husband/dad
  • Full time job including travel time/daycare drop-off
  • 2 very fast moving hours a night with my kids (must include feeding, bathing, homework)
  • I would rather read.  Currently the Black Dagger Brotherhood.  Seriously, I CANNOT PUT THEM DOWN.  Vampires + porn + 12 books 500+ pages each = How’s a 7:00 bedtime sound kids??
  • I can’t read on the treadmill, it makes me nauseous.
  • I really like to eat.  I could write a love letter to food that would be more erotic than one to my husband.  Seriously, if above mentioned vampires ate food the entire 500 pages, I’d still be totally turned on.
  • If I do get the rare opportunity to use our local YMCA membership, I am totally intimidated by gym people and the equipment, so I wuss out and get on the treadmill for a half hour, which I could totally do at home.  And at home, I could wear just a sports bar and shorts, and not have to worry about various exposed jiggly parts or the fact my vagina is slowing trying to consume my shorts.  (Shut it!  You know it happens to you too!).  Plus there’s the ick factor of hopping on a machine after sweaty, hairy guy vacates it without wiping it down.
  • Working out makes me sweat.  I hate being hot and sweaty.  I don’t have enough underwear to make this comfortable.
  • Working out at home is all the way DOWNSTAIRS.
  • I have trouble balancing my Kindle on the equipment to watch TV.  Music is nice, but I need some visual eye candy.  Maybe I could hire some firemen to dance in front of me whilst I work out.  Nope, scratch that, see above workout gear.
  • My available work out times are 4:30 to 5:30 a.m. or 9:00 to 10:00 p.m.  Those are definitely my optimum energy hours.  I think of all the times I’ve planned to get up and exercise in the morning, I think I’ve done it maybe twice in my whole life.  The road to hell is paved with good intentions…and donuts.
  • I hate healthy food.  Every day, I bring an apple to work.  Each day, I add said apple to my ever growing bushel in my food drawer. Eventually I will make a pie with them.
  • I can’t pronounce edamame or quinoa, therefore, can’t buy them for fear the cashier will want to talk about them, hence exposing my ignorance.
  • I hate healthy food.  Seriously.  Hate it.  My ideal “healthy” snack is a spoonful of Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter.
  • I love pop.  I hate water.  Just saying it makes me happy (POP, POP, POPPEDTY POP POP).  Water makes me sad and bored, and doesn’t wash down that candy bar aftertaste like a pop can.  God, I can hear me becoming diabetic.
  • Diets make me instantly hungry.  Just thinking about a diet makes me hungry.  Like, right now.  Do I have any cheesesticks in the fridge?  Is it too late for nachos?
  • My happy pills make me tired and slow my metabolism.
  • My allergy pills make me tired and you know, probably slow my metabolism too.
  • My kids make me tired.  Seriously, ever spend an hour yelling to get them into bed, brush teeth, poop, pee, break up fights, break up giggle fests, freak out over homework not done, get water for parched daughter, tell son why he cannot have water, argue about how long he can read, assure daughter there are no monsters in the house or room,  spray monster repellent into room just in case, reassure daughter all is OK after her nightmare (which she hasn’t had yet, because she has yet to close her eyes), tuck them in, re-tuck them in after they get up to rearrange their stuffed animals, trim a “nail” (read hangnail that is obviously life-threatening), put band-aid on non-existent boo boo, hear about friend’s vacation, talk about our vacation, and so on….?  Yeah, by the time they have finally given up the fight for the night, all I want to do is sit and stare at the wall.  Puttin on exercise gear (see hot description above), tennis shoes (apparently this is a Midwesterners’  term, so OK rest of America “shoes”), get water, desired electronic device for entertainment and heading downstairs does not sound appealing.  A glass of wine, a good book and/or catching up on New Girl and Vampire Diaries does however.

I want to be one of those women.  Like Maria Kang.  I want to LOVE exercise.  I want to LOVE healthy eating.  I go in cycles.  My husband usually times them.  I get on the wagon, detox for a week (read:  miserable, hungry, constant internal yelling at self), slowly start feeling awesome, crave working out, then BAM Coldstone happens or sick happens or tired happens and I am off the wagon on a binge most heroin addicts would say, Calm down lady, why don’t we ease up a little eh?  (Because my heroin addicts are Canadian.)

So, those are my excuses.  They are lame I know.  I am slowly killing myself I know.  It’s a vicious cycle.  I feel like I am a hamster stuck on a spinning wheel.  Only my spinning wheel consists of a couch, Kindle, Hulu and a snuggie.

Good night!

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Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

“MOOOOM!!!”

Silence. Maybe they won’t see me. Maybe they’ll just go back outside.

“Mom! You have to come see this! There’s a bunny leg that looks dead outside in the yard!”

Uh, no thanks, I’m good here. Just don’t touch anything that looks dead ok?

“No! You have to see this!”

FINE. Reluctantly I step into the yard to see what has my children, as well as the gaggle of neighborhood kids all huddled around my empty flower bed.  Some already have sticks in hand to do what kids do best – poke dead things.

NO ONE TOUCH THAT THING!!

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Yes folks, I had in my mulch just under my bedroom window a completely disemboweled, decapitated squirrel. OK, it turned out to be a bunny, but hey, without a head, it’s difficult to identify. Either way – disgusting.

The thing had died a horrible death. I can’t see a head, maybe it’s tucked up underneath the body. The stomach had been ripped open, with a circular brown organ sitting neatly beside it, as if it’s carnivorous attacker couldn’t stomach it. Seriously, I was waiting for Hannibal Lector to walk around the corner with a nice Chianti and a side of fava beans.

I shooed the kids away, but they were like moths to a flame. One ran to get his mom, as if I had decimated the thing personally and she was the only one who could resuscitate it. G wanted to know why the bunny had to die like that. It’s nature sweetie, some things eat other things. Give me a second to figure out how to explain the food chain to you AFTER I deal with its latest casualty. One kid took sentry up next to it in an effort to dissuade the other kids away with a fully loaded Nerf gun. There was no moving this kid, he was the lookout and that was that. I let him be as I stared at the disgustingness trying to figure out how to handle this.

Ah what the hell, daylight was fading, I was tired. Let’s go find something of Mark’s in the garage to cover it with. Ah Ha! 1 nice empty orange paint bucket will work nicely as I procrastinate one more thing I don’t want to do. So, much to the entire neighborhood’s disappointment, I gently covered the carcass with the bucket and placed a stone overtop so wind, animals or human animals did not knock it over “accidentally.” I kicked everyone out for the evening, went inside and locked the door, fully intending on leaving it for Mark to deal with Saturday morning. Three days later.

The next day, I hemmed and hawed about whether to “man” up and take care of it or leave it to my husband, because you know, I’m just a girl, I’m dainty and frail, and frankly, it’s icky.

Crap. I have to take care of it. What if the neighbor kids touch it, get rabies and die? Hello lawsuit.  Also, what if its young came a hoppin along only to discover its mother brutally murdered and covered with little to no care? Nope, this family has lived through enough as it is. OR what if its sadistic murderer comes back to rip off some legs too? Then I would have even more mess scattered throughout the yard, which would lead to more rabid kids and distraught bunny offspring and grieving bunny husbands. So, I put the kids in front of the TV, suited up and decided to tackle this thing on my own.

With light fading fast, I grabbed the spade shovel out of the shed and walked around to stare at the bucket.

I can’t do this.

Yes I can. People in the country do this all the time.

F you. I live in the CITY for a reason. Plus it’s super dark in the country and you know that’s where murderers lie in wait for their next victims.

OK, calm down….What if I knock the bucket over and something springs up at me? What if it stinks? Do I bury it or throw it out?

After some more staring and Facebook mea culpas, I decided on throwing it in a trash bin (with a bag in it), since burying it was a lot of work, and let’s face it, I didn’t know this bunny. I knocked the bucket over with the shovel and jumped out of the way like it was Frankenstein’s bunny come back to life to eat/kill me for locking it in a bucket for 24 hours. No such luck. Still deader than a doornail.

I took a deep breath, looked pleadingly across the street at the neighbor who is ALWAYS out manicuring her lawn, as if willing her to help me, and dug in. I got a good load of dirt from under it so I couldn’t feel it’s body and dumped it into the waiting trash can. I then proceeded to get the heeby jeebies for the next minute or so (Still no neighborly love coming my way. She’s probably mad at me because every fall I stare out my front window at them tractor vacuuming their leaves up until their yard is spotless, trying to use The Force to will her husband over to my pitiful yard, but alas, never have they come over.).

Once the shakes stopped, I realized this bunny had no head. Wait, isn’t there a rhyme that goes with this?

Fuzzy bunny loves some honey.

Fuzzy bunny lost its head.

Fuzzy bunny wasn’t so fuzzy was he?

No? Not ringing a bell? K. Nevermind.

Then I freak out. WHERE IS THE FREAKIN HEAD? Is there a falcon or hawk somewhere with a trophy nest of bunny/squirrel heads? Does some ‘roided out cat have its head as a necklace to warn all other neighborhood wildlife that it’s not fuckin around? Crap! What if it’s still in the yard somewhere? What kind of creature rips heads off animals?

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. As you can see, I am a city girl at heart. For some of you, this probably happens with some regularity, but for me, this was a extraordinary experience. I am forever scarred. I will always be on the hunt for your killer, Fuzzy Bunny. I WILL NOT FORGET.