Working It Out

So, I had another less than pleasant trip to the nutritionist where ONCE AGAIN I hadn't lost any weight. She tried to silver lining it for me by saying it was good I hadn't gained weight, but it was still beyond frustrating to know that since JANUARY I haven't really maintained a weight loss of more than 2 pounds.

I got depressed and when I get depressed, the only way for me to get out of it is to control my life in some way. So I sat and looked at my options and decided the best thing for me was to join a gym.

I've been working out largely to On Demand Comcast workout videos and walking with the pup. In the past, I've had good luck with gyms. I just haven't belonged to one in awhile because a) they're expensive and b) they require time commitments longer than my marriage.

My neighbor and former daycare lady (yeah, remind me to tell you the story of the new daycare dilemma) works out at one of those 24-hour gyms down the street. Most importantly, she sees a person trainer there she loves. I decided this was the way to go. A personal trainer would NOT let me cheat, and while it would be an expense, it would be worth it to get these last 10 pounds out of the way.

I downloaded a two-week pass. I knew exactly how this would go. And I was right on.

You bring in the pass. A very aggressive, very jacked dude asks you about how committed you REALLY are to fitness. He shows you around the club, he highlights the awesomeness of the facility, and then he tells you he has this awesome deal for you if you will only trade in your two-week pass for a membership.

You guys? I told everyone near me that I was NOT going to fall for it. I was going to use my two-week pass and take my time to make the right decision.

But then the guy told me it's only $30 a month for this gym and I get a free personal training session. And I also get 10% off with a company discount.

I figured I couldn't beat that, until I signed the contract and realized it was for 18 months. I balked. The monthly cost would go up significantly if I did anything less than 18 months. But suddenly I became the 16-year-old dude who needs space.

I mean, I like you. I just don't know if I like you that way.

But I felt pressured and signed. And immediately regretted it.

Have you guys experienced this kind of buyer's remorse? Where you're frantically looking through the loophole in the contract?

In my case, the loophole was I had three days to cancel.

I went back to my research and did another calculation and realized that if I bought a membership to the Community Center, it would be about half the cost. In fact, if I bought a family membership, it was still $100 less than this would be.

So I decided I'd do a test workout at the Community Center and do a pro/con list when I was done.

I present to you, my pro/con list. Also known as "Did I seriously choose the more expensive gym because it has ESPN?"

So I talked it over with Scott and he broke it down for me. Where would I actually go? Which gym would really motivate me to show up? Because even if it's cheaper for a year, if I have trouble parking and get frustrated and can't do the workout I want to because of the crowds, is it worth it?

So I didn't exercise (pun intended) my three-day out option and have been working out quite a bit at the new gym. I'm going to pull the trigger on the personal trainer soon and see if that's something I want to add on for a bit.

Have you experienced buyer's remorse? Do you belong to a gym? Do you actually go? Do you make pro/con lists for things?

What the Quesadilla is a Fajita???

So the other day, the roommate and I are hanging out watching Lifetime movies. As we do. Wee 'Burb was engaged with her blocks and the roommate and I were engaged in our normal movie dialogues that go something like this:

Me: That dude is totally gay. We're to believe he's hanging with Tori Spelling?

Roommate: He's beyond gay. But then, Tori Spelling is built like a guy. Or would be if she didn't have the fake boobies.

From a pile of blocks I hear "GAYYY!" and then a moment later "BOO-BIES!"

Aaaand it's here.

Wee 'Burb has begun to pick up on the words of others.

To say all of us have a potty mouth is rather like saying Kim Kardashian has a slightly large posterior.

Over dinner, we hatched a plan. We would come up with code words to mask our swearing.

What? We're supposed to give up swearing? Please!

So our system was naturally food-related. We determined the answer to our problem was: Mexican Food.

And now our dialogues go something like this:

Me: What the fajita is that quesadilla WEARING??

Roommate: I don't know, but her chimichangas are hanging out of that dress.

Scott: What the frijole are you talking about??

Wee 'Burb is none the wiser and right up until it's Taco Tuesday and daycare and we have some 'splainin to do, it's working for us.

How do you deal with the swearing around little kids? Are you able to just tone it down or do you use code words? My parents used Pig Latin!

The Corer Was Our Separator

Before we get started here, I'm looking for some good folks to guest post for me in August. Comment here or shoot me an e-mail if you're interested.

Recently, I've been reliving my wedding planning with Kat from Tenaciously Yours. Go visit her and offer your congrats on her recent wedding, which if the pictures are any judge, was a complete party.

I wasn't much into wedding planning myself. I was probably the worst bride, not in a Bridezilla way, but in whatever the opposite is. I just couldn't bring myself to care what colors the tablecloth were or whether the flowers matched the cake. Just didn't care.

I only really cared that I looked good in my dress, people had fun, and the groom showed up.

Also? I kind of cared about the registry.

Our registry was a challenge, our first real one in wedding planning. We had made most of our other wedding decisions very quickly (a necessity since we got engaged in February and married in October), but the registry was a bit of a stumble for us.

Scott was of the mind that we should go for the big ticket items, as we already had between us some of the best kitchen tools out there. I was of the mind that if we went for big ticket items, we'd get nothing from our registry and people would take to buying us what they THINK we should have, and spending the week after my wedding in return lines was less than appealing to me.

So we compromised and agreed we would do one registry at Target for the more reasonable registry items and Williams-Sonoma for our more extravagant wants and needs.

Scott virtually skipped into Williams-Sonoma on registry day. Under normal circumstances, we do not enter this store because I begin howler monkey screeching: "$25 for a measuring cup?? I could get four of those at Target for half the price!!"

So knowing he had carte blanche to wander and admire and shoot a gun at items in Williams-Sonoma may have made him happier than me saying I would marry him.

I began to dream of wine glasses, mugs, and serving ware when I heard my name shouted across the store.

Scott was standing near a saleswoman whose eyes told me she was getting commission and was about to buy herself a new living room set.

Thank God I was smart enough to keep the gun myself, but I wandered over and indulgently smiled at the saleswoman. She showed us what I like to call the "trinket aisle." You know the one, right? Magnetic conversion charts, mini spatulas, cookie cutters.

And the piece de resistance: a pineapple slicer and corer.

I wish I had taken a picture of Scott's face when he saw this.

Never mind we had never had a pineapple in our time together. Never mind that we had registered for some very expensive knives that would quite easily cut a pineapple.

HE.HAD.TO.HAVE.THE.EFFING.CORER!!

I could not talk him out of it.

In retaliation, I registered for a cow coffee creamer. The creamer comes out of the cow's mouth in a barf-like manner.

Source: Williams-Sonoma

So we do the gift opening, and I get the cow coffee creamer and everyone who has heard our story dies laughing.

Scott is slightly pouting. We are corer-less.

For Christmas this past year, my parents broke down and bought Scott the pineapple corer and slicer.

Scott, this is the closest you'll get to a "you were right."

I confess, we do buy pineapple once a month or so. I confess, the pineapple corer and slicer is pretty slick. I confess getting a whole pineapple and cutting it is more economical. I confess a grilled pineapple is one of the most amazing summer treats ever.

Allow me to demonstrate:


Cut the top off the pineapple.



THE CORER!

Corer goes in. I totally forgot to cut off the bottom of the pineapple. Rookie mistake.



So I had to cut the skin off the sides.

Out comes the core! Easy peasy!

Cut up to put on the grill. Is there ANYTHING better than pineapple on the grill????

 
So what registry arguments did you have, or what is on your dream registry when you get hitched?

Pay or Play?

Thanks to those of you who voted for Dress Me for Date Night. It's between 2 and 3 for me right now, we'll have to see how I feel. It was fun for me to see the comments, though! Thanks for playing!

Growing up, we had varying rules about allowance and chores. During the summer when we stayed at a guest house in Cape Cod, we got a quarter to make our beds every day. This quarter was then happily spent on getting a total (sugar) high at the local penny candy store.

Sometimes we got $5 a week to do our assigned chores, and then later in life we basically had to do what the parents told us in return for money to go out and access to the car. So there was no set allowance. As I was a total loser in high school and didn't do more than go to a movie on occasion, I feel I was a pretty cheap date as far as allowances went.

But I made up for it by going to a rather expensive college.
Scott and I have loosely talked about what we're going to do for allowances when Wee 'Burb is big enough for these things. My thought was about $10 a week or so with the understanding that $1 of it goes to the church each week, sort of an early lesson in saving and giving to good causes.

Then I read this on the Wall Street Journal:

A rising proportion of parents are adopting the pay-for-work view, based on a new survey. A surprising 71% of parents will pay their kids for doing chores this summer, according to a June 2011 survey of 2,004 consumers. And they’re going beyond pocket change, paying an average $25 a month just for doing laundry, says the American Express Spending & Saving Tracker. No comparable data from previous Tracker surveys is available.


I don't think $25 a month is astronomical on its face, although I do think it is for doing one chore. Growing up I standardly unloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the bathroom, and vacuumed upstairs. I also, as I mentioned, was at the whim of my parents to do additional chores as needed.

Other friends growing up had chore wheels, chore jars, or other ways in which the chores were rotated.

And yet others were never paid for chores. But some were paid for grades, which I found odd. Why, I wonder, do I think paying for chores teaches responsibility and time management, but paying for grades is somehow grandiose? Aren't we paid for performance often at work?

Still others never had to do chores. Their parents felt they were children and should enjoy childhood. Incidentally, these were the kids at college who looked at the washing machine like it was the sphynx.

I feel like it's about expectations, and also about money management and I am just not sure the best way to instill those values. Also, given that Wee 'Burb is only 20 months, who's to say the rules won't change? On $5 a week I could at least go to a movie. Nowadays $5 won't get you in the door!

I'm curious, how did you handle this in your house growing up? How do you do it now, or plan to do it in the future? Do you and your significant other have different views on this issue?

You Don't Know Me! Death By Chocolate Chip

Since I have doubled my readership in the last few months (thanks for coming to see me!) I've decided to do a little experiment. On Thursdays I'll be posting some items from the first year of blogging under the title You Don't Know Me!
Posted originally in May 2010.



Oh my gosh, I almost experienced ACTUAL death by chocolate! You hear about it, but you don’t think it’s true. And then, it happens to you.

So, my girlfriend and I get together once a week or so and have movie nights. We pick completely random movies at least one of us hasn’t seen and we take turns hosting. It’s all very low key and relaxing: the host provides dinner (usually Chinese) and the guest provides dessert and booze.

So it’s my turn to go to her house and I am having a bad week. Like just record-breaking blahs. And while nothing cures the blahs like a good old-fashioned movie night, the idea of getting in the car and getting there just exhausts. So adding extra stops for booze and dessert? Forget it. So there’s a liquor store nearby that I know keeps champagne cold and I am in a cheap champagne mood.

Next door is a little Mexican gas station/taco stand. Yup, you read that right. In the middle of the country…in a gas station. Anyway, I get the lightbulb that I can just go ahead and buy the “dessert” right there in the gas station. So I go in looking for a bag of cookies. I’ll say this: bless my friend for loving cheap cookies and even cheaper booze. I’ve cooked for her and she’s graciously eaten it all, but I swear nothing makes the girl happier than a bag of Milanos and that’s why we’re friends.

Only this isn’t exactly that kind of gas station/taco stand, know what I mean? They’re selection isn’t exactly vast. But for some reason in my exhaustion, I find this funny and so end up purchasing the rather festive-looking cookie box you see here. Cute, right? She’s making a little Russian dish for me so I figure I’ll bring her a little Spanish dish of my own.

So I pay and leave and go get my champagne. I’ve parked between the liquor store and the gas station/taco stand, so about 20 feet from both. I am in my car, about to shut the door when I hear this little voice call out to me in a thick Mexican accent “hellooooo?” So I turn around and a Mexican man wearing an apron is waving at me. But he’s not moving off the sidewalk by the store. He’s just like yelling to me, which kind of weirds me out.

I start to stress a little because this is a small parking lot and it’s empty. And also, irrationally, I’m freaked out about speaking Spanish. I hate when I do this! The thing is: I know Spanish. And I know in situations like this, where he’s gearing up for a big conversation, I could probably speak Spanish and cut through it all much quicker.

Instead, I panic. I do this totally circular self-fulfilling prophecy when it comes to my fluency in Spanish. I am, in fact, half Puerto Rican. And also, in fact, am fluent in Spanish. But you get me around native speakers and I just melt into my little Irish girl half. I don’t know what it is. Well, that’s not true, I do. I am self-conscious about sounding stupid so I won’t speak it in front of native speakers. Which means I don’t speak it often. Which means when I DO have to speak it, it sounds awkward and I stutter and then that makes me not want to speak it in front of native speakers.

Ok, so all of this is going through my mind as I stare blankly at him. So he asks “how much did you pay for those cookies?”

So, remember I’m tired, right? Bad week? A million things are going through my mind like “did I overpay? Underpay? Is he going to tell me I got ripped off? Does he have some sort of cheap cookie connection he wants to introduce me to?

Side note: this is why I can’t do yoga anymore. My brain REFUSES to slow down and make sense. And it for sure won’t stop to concentrate on my breathing. The classes were TORTURE for me. The whole time, my mind would be going a mile a minute: “that girl shouldn’t wear such short shorts; I hope nobody is behind me, if they’re behind me they’ll see how fat my ass is; I wonder what would happen if I fell over right now? Would they laugh or are they too zen for that? Because I would laugh, but I also can’t do a perfect tree pose without falling over, so they’re all better than me.” And then the worst part is the end when you’re just supposed to lay there and like reflect on the beauty of a dewdrop on the water or whatever? Yeah, then I go into overdrive: “Okay, so just turn off, brain. We won’t think about anything. Is thinking about not thinking about something thinking about it? I should stop. The person next to me looks very serene. Crap! I’m supposed to have my eyes closed. But so is the instructor so if she calls me out, then she’s just a phony, right?” And then all of a sudden it’s like “Namaste” and I feel totally gypped.

Anyway, so I told the man I paid $3.99 for the cookies. And he says “too much, they’re really bad, you should get your money back.” And I’m like, wow, there are lots of things in life I don’t like, but I can’t think of a time that I’ve actually stood outside to persuade someone not to do it. I mean that’s ballsy! So I shout back “well, I don’t mind giving them a try” because I can’t imagine going back in and explaining to the man behind the counter that the other dude who sells tacos told me these cookies sucked and could you please return my $3.99, thank you? It’s just too awkward.

So I see him turn and look at someone, who I later realize is the dude who sold me the cookies, and then he says “they’re old!” And again, stupid brain goes, old, like old school? And I start thinking about pop rocks and other candy I haven’t seen in awhile and maybe he’s just letting me know that his generation is smarter about these things and therefore knows that they’re total crap cookies.

And he’s getting more and more riled up. And I’m getting more and more weirded out because, dude, no matter what you say, I’m not getting out of my car to return the cookies. The whole reason I got them at your gas station/taco stand was because I was too lazy to go down the street to the multiple grocery stores or gas stations I could encounter that would have had Milanos instead of your, apparently, crap cookies.

And for some reason this like rebellious teenager in me comes out and I’m thinking: “well, now I will try the damn cookies and I will love them. Who tells me not to like cookies?” The gall! And again while I am doing this he is frantically whispering to the dude who sold me the cookies and finally as I am putting my seat belt on yells “expired! They expired! It would be better for you to return.”

And now I’m just embarrassed. And guilty because maybe if I had just spoken Spanish to the guy we would have been on the same page. Only I don’t know the Spanish word for expired. Crap, my fluency is fading.

So I’m feeling bad in general because I was all “I should speak English, it’s better” and made him struggle to explain to me the cookies I purchased were bad. And also feeling bad because first I’ve pegged this guy as some sort of back-alley cookie connection, then as some sort of anti-cookie crank, when in reality all he’s doing is trying not to poison me. I’m too embarrassed to reply so I just wave and take off.

I stop a ways down the road. And sure as hell: expired June 2009. Think about that. Think about the shelf life of a crappy generic cookie. I think that cookie could have been made while I still had braces on!

But don’t think for a second I wasn’t still tempted to try the cookies. Instead, $3.99 down the tubes.

Guest Post: Lola's Fear of (Not) Flying

It's that time again! My good buddy Lola is taking over my blog. I have a month until my vacation when I get to fly with a toddler, so this is not the feel-good story of the year. And yet, totally relatable.

Hands up, who here has gotten seriously drunk on an airplane? Two weeks ago, I would have gasped in ladylike horror at such a notion. Maybe even clutched my pearls.

But not anymore.

I hope you will not judge me too harshly, I had a good excuse (old Lola: sure, that’s what they all say!). And in my defense, I did not start any arguments with the flight attendant, didn’t get the federal marshals involved, nor did I activate the inflatable escape slide, as giddy with drunken delight as I was. Come on, those things look like fun! Totally just one of those backyard slides, only with a freezing ocean at the end…

Really, Delta is to blame. Things started out innocently enough with my first flight landing on time. I casually strolled out, determined to hit a few duty-free shops during the four-hour layover. But first, I needed my boarding pass (for some stupid reason, I was only issued one for the first half of my trip).

So I casually moseyed up to the counter, even letting a nice elderly couple ahead of me, that’s how good of a mood I was in. Finally, it’s my turn. The check-in lady fiddles with my itinerary. But instead of handing me a boarding pass with a beaming smile and sending me on my way, she furrows her brow.

Wuh-oh.

But I’m telling myself to stay positive. Maybe all this means is that I won’t get a window seat. She keeps at the keyboard. Clickety-clack. Okay, now I’m getting REALLY nervous. Finally, she looks up and tells me with a nice Dutch accent that my flight is almost done boarding.

Um, excuse me?? I have four hours! Oh no, no, she tells me. My flight leaves in 20 minutes! Oh, and my bag is already on board.

I think I am going to throw up on her nice counter. She picks up the phone and starts chatting away to someone in Dutch, which is when I hear the following message over the PA system: “Lola, you are delaying the flight. Please board immediately, or we will proceed to offload your luggage.”

Dear God, this harkened me back to the time I was paged to the principle’s office over the intercom in sixth grade. Only now, my precious luggage is in just as much trouble, is probably getting suspected of containing a bomb, possibly getting sniffed by police dogs and getting rudely kicked off the plane. A plane it wasn’t even supposed to be on because THIS IS NOT MY FLIGHT!!

And the Check-in Lady of Doom? Still chatting. In Dutch.

Finally, FINALLY she hangs up after what felt like three hours. “Well, I managed to move you to the five o’clock flight,” she tells me wearily. Chatting in Dutch can wear one out, I hear. “It leaves in four hours.”

Yes, the flight I was SUPPOSED TO BE ON!

Of course now, my thoughts turn back to my bag. She assures me the bag was taken off the departing flight and will make it to the later one. I remain skeptical. I mean, if Delta can’t even keep their passengers on the right flights, what chance is there for humble luggage?! Even for pretty, dark burgundy luggage that’s probably getting abused by luggage handlers as we speak.

Still, I clutch onto my hard-earned boarding pass and walk away. The whole time, I feel like it’s going to get snatched away. I keep checking the boarding time over and over, afraid that I didn’t read it right or something. I even show up at the gate an hour early just to make sure I’m going to be on the right flight.

Finally, it’s time to board. The flight is, of course, full. And one row down from me, something ain’t right – an older woman in a cardigan is arguing about something with a young Asian guy. Then flight attendants get involved.

Apparently, both of them have a boarding pass for the exact same seat! Gulp.

A little while later, poor Cardigan Woman gets loaded off into nowhere – as much as I’m straining to hear the conversation, I can’t quite tell how they managed to mess up the flight manifest this time.

Of course, this throws me into total panic mode for a second time. I keep waiting for someone to show up and claim my seat.

Somehow, I don’t think “I was here first!” is going to cut it. So I eye each passenger walking up the aisle with psycho suspicion, chanting to myself: “keep walking, keep walking, keep walking.” The nice German gentleman next to me is probably thinking about switching seats. I can’t blame him.

And then, they finally close the doors.

Thank you, sweet Jesus! I’m GOING HOME! So yes, in celebration, I proceeded to get exceedingly tipsy. Can you blame a girl?

How about you, what’s your awful travel story?

Dress Me For Date Night

So last week we covered that I had zero wardrobe staples and was a hot mess in the clothing department.

I've since done some shopping. I was going to present an array of options for you, but as it is 117 degrees here today and the rest of the week, we'll be wearing the only cute skirt I own, which was purchased for $11 on eBay.

I'll show you the other stuff I bought on my next date night.

So some of may recall for Christmas, I bought Scott The 12 Dates of Christmas. Basically once a month we go to a different spot we've always wanted to go. This month we are going to The Nicollet Island Inn.

Without further ado, here are my wardrobe options. As I do not have any technological know-how, I can't do an actual poll so please comment here on what you think I should wear.

Oooh, one last thing! I totally need to do dry cleaning, so forgive the wrinkles on all my clothing. I'll get my act together before date night, I'm not that big of a slob.

Option 1: Cardigan from Banana Republic, Tank from The Gap, and my eBay Ann Taylor Skirt.

Option 2: Tank by Ann Taylor

Option 3: Cardigan: Herbergers, Tank: Ann Taylor

Option 4

 Option 5: Blazer and Top by Kohls