Flow

Happy New Year! I believe you can wish people a happy new year for all of January, don't you think? Definitely the first time you see them in the new year. I still have a handful of New Year's cards unsent. When I sat down to order my Christmas cards this year, I realized they'd better be New Year's cards, and that was the right call. It's taking a little time because I'm writing personal notes on all 60 of them. I only mention that to shame you.

LOL jk not really! Not really about the shame that is. I really am writing the notes because what else do I have to do?

Anyway. I thought about you guys yesterday morning after I played a tennis match. My partner and I got beat, but I was driving away from the match feeling fine, thinking about my day, my friends, my kids, people I know who are sick, people who are grieving, my own health, just all the things that I think about. And it came to my mind to tell you how, back when I first started playing tennis in earnest, two years ago, being on the court was the only time that I didn't think about breast cancer. In those days I was worried all the time. Cancer dread was a constant background noise to all of my other thoughts. God, exhausting.

That dread is not gone. It has just changed from being uncontrolled and omnipresent to being a familiar part of my mental furniture. I see it every day, but it has a place and I keep it there and try to ignore it. I think this gets easier over time, the not feeling afraid. And also, you know what? Fuck it.

We're diving deep into the mind of Becky today, looks like.

So yeah, when I'm playing tennis, I don't think about any of that. I don't think about my kids. Yesterday I realized that when I'm playing, I don't remember that I even HAVE kids. And I'm not even very good! I marvel at how pleasurable and restful the sport must be for people who have real skills. I think this is the concept of flow, of like, being so immersed in an activity that you aren't even aware of your own self or of the passage of time.

I remember once Laura told me how she feels at swim practice sometimes. She said, "It's like I'm asleep, but I'm awake and my body is working." I think that's flow.

I think being in flow is good for us. I just wanted to poke my head in and ask you, what activities do you have or do that make you feel that way? We're supposed to start the year the way we mean to go on, so let's get flowing, shall we?

Back soon with a holiday update, etc. Yes my Christmas tree is still up, in keeping with our tradition of leaving it up long enough to honor Dr. King. xoxoxo

Or A Tablecloth from A Pizzeria

The other day I got a new blouse, and Matt goes, "It's like I am married to a picnic blanket."

Hmmph!

This morning, after I got the kids up, fed them breakfast, made their lunches, and got them onto the school bus, I crawled back into bed for a few minutes, and then Matt was stirring around the room getting ready for work. He asked me, as he does many mornings, "Do you know where there are some clean socks for me?"

"At the store," I said.

I mean honestly! It's like he wants to wear a clean pair of socks every single day, and that is just not sustainable for me at this point in my life.

Then I went ahead and got up. I drank coffee and looked at the rain, the rain that caused all kinds of tennis to be canceled and rescheduled today. The tennis matches are piling up out there like jumbo jets that can't get clearance to land. Sometimes I feel like an air-traffic controller. An air-traffic controller at the lowest-stress airport in the world.

I sat in my quiet house, and the instinct towards sloth threatened to overtake me. With the last shred of will I possessed, I texted Pretty Neighbor and asked if she wanted to work out in her basement. She agreed and so I was committed. This is how I get around myself.

By then Matt showed back up at the house for a lunch visit. We chatted for a bit and I said, "Goodbye, I'm going to work out with Pretty Neighbor," and he was all, "Can I come watch?" and I was like, LOL, and he was like, j/k, no really, and I was all, "I know baby."

So we did work out, for the first time in a while. We return to the Jillian Michael's workout DVDs again and again. Those plus tennis keep things on the up; tennis alone won't do it. Then I left PN's house and arrived back on my street in time to meet the elementary school bus, and my new neighbor, the one that moved into Frenemy's house, saw me and said, "Hey, where do you work out? I need to go with you sometime." And I was like, yeah! But honestly, now that PN has turned her basement space into more of a media room, there isn't really a place for a third friend to work out. Though I know the thought would put a smile on Matt's face.

This was my day.

It is truly a blog about nothing.

How are you?

Old Man of the Mountain

Dad at Shining Rock in October

You guys who have been hanging around here a while know my dad as Camp Papa, his blog-commenting name. He just yesterday emerged from spending a week on the Appalachian Trail. (My mom was visiting me because she didn't want to be up at their mountain house alone for the week, though I told her she wouldn't be alone. There would be bears and moonshiney ghosts.)

I am proud of that guy. Just eighteen months ago, before he lost 100+ pounds and took up hiking, he would not have been able to dream of doing that trek. Not even one day of it. It's like he's been given a new life. Or more that he's gone out and gotten it for himself.

He was to do the hike with seven other guys, and he had given lots of thought and preparation to his gear and everything, and he has been walking long distances, so I wasn't worried about him. But then Mom showed up at my house and told me about dropping him at the trail head. "How did he seem?" I asked. "Well," she said, "it was like the Roy Rogers galoshes."

The Roy Rogers galoshes: For long, long years, those galoshes have been part of family lore. When my dad was a kid, he was very poor. His mother worked hard to raise her three children alone, and they struggled to make ends meet. Sometimes the ends did not meet. The story goes that when Dad was in maybe the third grade, his shoes wore out and all he had to wear to school were a pair of Roy Rogers galoshes, in rain or shine. One moral of the story as it has been told is that he didn't mind this very much. Another part of the story is that, when I first heard of the galoshes--I was probably younger than Laura--I announced that I couldn't hear about them any more ever because they made me want to cry. They stood as a symbol for all the things about his childhood that were difficult, awkward, and make-do. Those galoshes pained me.

Another legend of this kind was his bicycle--the only bike he ever had. It didn't have pedals and it didn't have a seat--just a pole sticking up--but he loved it and couldn't wait to come home and ride it. Do you see now why, as a younger person, I couldn't stand to hear this stuff? Also he never had a birthday party, I'm serious.

It's okay now though.




Anyway, at my house on Sunday, Mom painted a vivid picture of his meeting up with his hiking buddies in the rainy woods. They arrived all wearing these slick, breathable, two-piece rain suits. Dad, she said, had cobbled together two different dollar store ponchos to cover him and his pack. "And the ponchos were different colors!" she said, shaking her head. "And he has a rain suit at the house!" she protested. "I tried to get him to take it, but he insisted he'd be fine with the ponchos."

"It's the Roy Rogers galoshes!" we exclaimed together.

That night he turned on his phone long enough to text her. "Miserable day. Pray for a dry night for me." We stewed and worried. He also said it was much harder going than he expected, with the steep climbing and the heavy pack combined.

The whole week, as we were going about our normal business, I thought of him out on the trail, trudging forward. Cold frosty mornings and misty foggy afternoons. I thought of how tedious I would find it taking off my boots at night, knowing I had to put them on again in the morning.

Mom was expecting to go pick them up in the Nantahala Gorge this morning, but with the weather about to turn stormy again, they pushed quicker and came out last night. Someone had left a car, and they all trundled to the mountain house to spend the night. He said it was like arriving at the Ritz Carlton.

We talked to him today. He said it was the hardest thing he's ever done--harder than basic training in the Air Force, harder than training for high school football--just really hard. He kept saying, "Did I mention it was hard?" And that if there had been an exit door, he might have taken it. But he stuck with it. They slept in hammocks every night, and boiled water to make food. They met through-hikers who were going all the way, and got to dip a toe into the quirky culture of the AT. They went about fifty miles, which isn't huge daily distance, maybe, but there was a lot of climbing. He learned a lot about the practical aspects of the whole enterprise--gear and food and all that. And he goes, "I've always heard that you can do more than you think you can, but I never actually had to do it."

Old guys! They're tough! I am happy for him.

He said he wouldn't want to do it again next week, but he might want to do it again next year, and he was talking about us doing some kind of family trek, not a week but a few days. I reminded him that the last time I went camping, I took along frappuccino in glass bottles. Whereas he had sawed off his toothbrush handle to cut weight. So we'll see what comes of that.

Muddy Buddies

Last Friday night we spent the night in Athens, GA. We got up Saturday morning, drove to the middle of nowhere, turned left, and at length, arrived at the Tough Mudder racecourse. This was an eleven or twelve-mile run with 21 obstacles, most of them involving feats of strength or the willingness to get completely filthy. There were, like, at least a thousand people with this willingness.

Matt and his gang had trained, prepared, and purchased performance fabrics. They gathered as a group, listened to pep talks, and had to climb over a wall to even begin the race. As they ran away from the start, I was giddy with pleasure at not having to do it myself. But then it started to look like they were really having fun.

Splash.

Just dudes in mud.

Then, after Matt and his friends were all wet and slicked in mud, it was kind of, um, hot, and I realized the full eye-candy potential of this whole scene.

Ceremonial finish-line sweatbanding.

Then they got handed beer.

Then shower time.

Matt and his friends made it through in good style. He felt like his training had been good, he had something left in the tank, and nothing hurt too bad. Nobody liked the electric shocks though.

If I'd been thinking that the race looked really fun, the electrical component was a deal breaker for me.

Hank loved the whole scene.

Muddy family.

And somehow I was really tired after all of this, even though I didn't do anything. I did step in an ant bed though. My struggles! And then we set out for a night at the beach and Hank threw up all over the inside of the car as we passed through Statesboro but it all turned out okay.

If you are into it, there are more mud pics here. 

And then yesterday, my brother-in-law Jason did this down in Sydney. Only it is autumn there. Crazy! These boys and their games.

These Boys

These boys who live in this house, I mean. They keep my attention from actual dawn until I lay down my head at night.

In two weeks, Matt is doing that Tough Mudder race. Have you heard of this? They have them all over; it's basically a twelve-mile obstacle course that combines trail running with various feats of physical endurance. I think there's, like, climbing over walls and shinnying through a corrugated pipe filled with muddy water. Also there are live electrical wires you have to dart around? And maybe fire? It sounds made up but I think it's real.

Anyway, a bunch of guys from his company are doing it as a team. And one guy's wife. We were at the company Christmas party when I first heard this discussed, and a few people were like, "Come on Becky! You should do it! Jen is doing it!" And they started to make those noises like they were going to cajole me into it. And Matt was like, "Don't even. She's impervious to pressure, y'all." I mean, there was no way. I don't like to run and I don't like elective dirtiness and I feel zero compulsion to be one of the boys.

So there's no way I would have signed up for that, but I am an enthusiastic supporter of the effort as it is undertaken by others. They have been training for it quite diligently. Just now as I was climbing into bed, Matt was down on the floor doing his last set of push ups. Which inspired me to drop and do the ten push ups I can do. Or, I mean, I might be able to do more than ten, who knows. It's like the question of how high can a kangaroo jump? Nobody knows, because nobody has ever known how to really motivate a kangaroo.

So he has been training, but I think he is now in the phase of training where you doubt your training and whether it has prepared you. I don't know, he's tough, and as I said to him, you can do anything for three hours. Hee! I think that whatever happens, it will be a good story for him to tell. Hank is quite interested in this whole thing, and we'll be there to watch and cheer.

Speaking of Hank, I'll leave you with one other moment from my day. He and I went into Target to buy dog food. As we wheeled the cart down the aisle, he said, "Mom, what kind of car do we have?" I answered that we have a Kia minivan. He asked why we got that kind of car, and I answered, distractedly, that we had wanted a minivan and that was a nice one.

"Okay," he said. "Well, I would have appreciated a Cadillac."

Indeed.

"Oh, for sure, me too," I said. I winked at the woman down the aisle who had whipped her head around to see who this little bon viveur was.

Taking this child anywhere usually involves some amount of winking at strangers. Sometimes shrugging.

Then we went to Mother-Son bowling with his school. I played Laser Tag, y'all. I may have gotten really into it.

xoxo

At The Crack of Doom

Laura had to be on deck for a swim meet at 6:45 this morning, forty-five minutes from our house. When I first opened the email containing the session times, I winced in an exaggerated fashion. Like, I pulled my shoulders up around my ears. I have written before of my dislike of scheduled things, and when the scheduled things are early in the morning, I am like BEYOND GAH.

A meet on a school day is a new thing for us. This particular meet is Friday, Saturday, AND Sunday, and Laura is swimming all three days. At 5:45, I rolled out of bed, put on jeans, and pulled a fleece on over the camisole I slept in. I nudged Laura and in ten minutes, we were out the door into the dark. She had packed her backpack the night before, she has always been easy to get going in the morning. I got her a sausage biscuit on the way because if it is still dark outside, there is no such thing as a healthy breakfast. Just please hand over the grease and bread. I had a banana, because banana and coffee are two of my favorite tastes together.

We got to the meet and found seats in the bleachers. I said, "Didn't you bring anything to read or do?" She said, "I never bring anything." And then she sat there and watched every event. I remembered, duh, this is her sport, she wants to watch it being done. A big sign on the far side of the room had that pool's records for each event, for men and women. We studied the list; Michael Phelps's name was all over it. Then, watching the 15-18 boys swim a long, grueling medley, Laura gestured toward the records and said, "Michael Phelps would be done by now." That made me laugh. I said it sounded like she was quoting the worst coach in the world, just comically non-motivating. "You know, guys, Michael Phelps would be done already. He'd be dried off and eating an entire pizza, probably folded in half like a taco. Step it up."

Then she swam her events and it was all good and we were out of there at 11:30. But even though I had nothing demanding on my schedule for the rest of the day, to my friends I was all, "You GUYS, OMG so early! And driving down to Chamblee! But it's for the children!!!" Then we got Hank, had lunch, saw Fabienne the cleaning lady out the door, relaxed for a little bit, and then went up to the playground and tennis courts for Laura's lesson. I watched some of my friends play and enjoyed the sudden turn to gorgeous weather after the raw, bone-chilling and spirit-breaking, chilly-damp soul funk we've been enduring.

Matt had to get Hank ready for school and this is how that went.

The whole family has been going pretty hard all week. The tennis, y'all, good lord. I had five tennis matches or practices between Tuesday and Thursday night, including two three-set, three hour grinders. (Winning!) Funny how you can feel two different ways about two different matches you won. One I was annoyed about, because we never should have let those ladies take us to a third set--we played like utter goofballs and the pace was so slow you would have cut your own throat--and the other I felt absolutely triumphant and glowing about, because we lost the first set and had our hands full, these girls were good. It did not look good for us, but we adjusted our game and took the match. I ran from side to side for three hours--nobody who has known Becky for a long time would have recognized me. I don't even know, it's like I'm a stranger to myself.

That night I ate the whole world, then climbed into bed feeling various pains. That's not usual for me, but my toes hurt, my legs hurt, and my elbow was sore from overuse. I resolved to take today and tomorrow off from tennis. I turned down a match and I even turned down an invite to a St. Patty's Day party tonight, because I think we were all craving some downtime. Also the party hosts are loud, prone to drunkenness, famously volatile, and on the brink of divorce. Which is basically the same as saying, they're on our mixed doubles team.

I KID. THERE ARE ONLY LIKE TWO COUPLES ON OUR MIXED TEAM WHO FIT THAT DESCRIPTION. lol j/k

Matt is taking Laura to her meet tomorrow, otherwise there is no way I'd be awake and blogging. God bless you all and God bless America. xoxo

I Got Served

Until today, I hadn't lost a ladies' doubles match in months. Like really, maybe October? I've been on a hot streak, I don't know why, either I've improved, or I've been paired with strong partners, or it's luck and trickery. Probably all of the above. Hey, remember when I blogged about the first match I ever won? I was so excited! Adorable. At that time, I figured that I would probably blog about every subsequent match I won, because it would be such a rare occurrence.

There have been a couple tennis career highlights lately. Our mixed doubles team won our division in the Atlanta Lawn Tennis Association, yielding us a coveted bag tag. The bag tag is just that, a little piece of plastic that says something like, "ALTA 2013 Division Winner," and you are supposed to hang it on your tennis bag to strike fear in the hearts of your foes. Some people have a lot of them. It's like wearing a necklace of bones as a trophy or something. Yeah, like that.

I was reading on some online tennis talk forum, and the subject of Atlanta came up and what a tennis town it is, and somebody said, "Second only to the Wimbledon trophy is the precious ALTA bag tag."

And all the people said amen! And now it is mine! And Matt's.  

Just an example. Not my bag, LOL.

Also this winter, a tennis friend, Peg, and I signed up for a flex league, where we were matched with opponents and scheduled our own matches. We won all of our matches, winning our division. Our prize? Not only ANOTHER bag tag, but OMG friends, wait for it: A car magnet. It too says "Division Winner." An outward and visible sign that we are winners. It says "winner" right on it.

To understand the wonderfulness of this car magnet, you would have to be deeply immersed in my milieu and the folkways of my people. I know it doesn't sound like much, but when the magnet came in the mail today, Laura ran out and put it on the back of the minivan. Then she turned to me and said, with seeming seriousness, "Do you feel like you're one of them now?" Who is the them? I don't know. The winners!
 And people actually display them on their cars, like I am doing. I know it is the least cool thing ever, but winning.

So Peg and I won our division, beating this lady who has a reputation for being bitchy on the court. Every neighborhood has a different nickname for her, seriously. She is famous in our league. She rides to the court on a bike with a big basket, and people call her the Wicked Witch. I didn't find her bitchy, exactly--in fact I think I'd probably like to know her--but I sure enjoyed beating her in a third-set tiebreak. Then we had to play her again in the first round of playoffs. I was like, "Peg, we have to beat her, because she thought she should have won the last time, and if she beats us now, she will feel she was right." So we beat her again in another three-set match. Whew! And I swear, we beat her in spite of her and her partner being better than us. That happens sometimes, I felt like we just outplayed them. They did not know what happened. And that led us to today, a bit farther along in the bracket, our second playoff match.

Our opponents were a tall, pretty Swedish girl and a tall, pretty British girl. It was like playing against a Model UN, like, only with actual models. And you know that scene in Elf where Will Ferrell is getting hustled out of the Empire State Building by the security guards, and he says, in wonderment, "You guys are so strong!" That's what playing them felt like.

We did everything we could, but they were too good. They were so good that our being merely smart wasn't enough. We lost 3-6, 3-6. I don't know if we ever put any real pressure on them. They might have had another gear they could have shifted up to, I'm not sure. But it was a beautiful day and they were as nice as they could be. I felt okay after we left, because I knew that my little train had chugged as far as it could--I felt I'd been playing above my level and was lucky to get that far.

The prize for winning the playoffs and being city champion is another, different, car magnet. No lie.

So my streak is over, but Spring tennis is starting and maybe I can start a new streak.

Longest post evar. Aren't you glad I'm blogging every day so that you won't miss a minute?

Niceties

I just this minute got home from a singles tennis match I had this morning, a match I lost 5-7, 5-7. That right there is what we call All of the Pain, None of the Gain. But the going-away small talk I had with the other girl stuck in my head and I thought I would tell you about it. Here's what we said and what we meant by it.

Her: "So you've already played Shelly, I'm playing her tonight. How is she?" Will I beat her?


Me: "She's very sweet." I crushed her when we played.


Her: "She's been doing pretty well I think." You're not going to help me scout her out?


Me: "Yes, she's a doll. You'll have fun." That's all you're getting.


Her: "Well thanks Becky, it was a good match." I won! I won! I won!


Me: "Yes, you played great! I'd love to play you again sometime." You got lucky.


(scene)


Yes, I am always a sore loser on the inside, I hope you're not disappointed in me. But it struck me after we parted that this girl and I spoke the same language, and also that "she's very sweet" is right up there behind "bless her heart" as one of the worst things you can say about someone.

I have to go drown my sorrows in this giant unsweet iced tea. More later. xoxo

Flashback And Sort of A Before And After

I was going to share some pictures from my doctoral graduation last summer, because I never blogged about it. So I dug back in my flickr sets and looked at the pictures, and I was like, "Whoa, I was thirty pounds heavier." Look, here I am with my beautiful friend Erika last June, and below that is one taken of me this Easter.

June 2011

April 2012

I don't know that I've actually seen the comparison before. Even with my being slightly hunched over in this pic and thus accentuating my honeybaked ham belly, I can really see the difference in my face and arms. It's funny, in my mind's eye I've always looked the same.

So, my graduation last June. Remember how I had wanted the whole family to go and then I almost didn't go and there was crying? Well I am so, SO glad I went and shared those days with good friends. It really properly marked the ending of that grad school chapter in my life, in a true valedictory way. Before the graduation ceremony, I was always feeling slightly melancholy for Santa Cruz. I loved living there--we had so many happy, major, formative times there. Laura arrived there as a newborn and left ready for Kindergarten, and it was a complete intellectual, social, and emotional passage for me. I guess that is why they call it an education.

Getting my hood

With my friend Jon

Our engagement photo

Braintrust: David, Erika, and Veronica

Beach Boardwalk

Even as we settled into our lives here in Atlanta, I always felt a little like I somehow should still be in California. But somehow going out there and walking in the graduation helped me feel happy that it all happened but not sad it was over. There might something to this whole mark-a-life-moment-with-a-ceremony thing. It could catch on.

If you are into it, more pictures are here.

And you guys! It's the last day of our month of daily blogging. I have loved our talks. It has been more than worth the loss of evening netflix time. (Believe it or not, it takes like an hour to talk about nothin'.) Thank you for coming around and reading and commenting. You are such a peach.

If you haven't already, go click on the facebook button up there on the left and "like" SubMat on fb. That is, if you like SubMat. Then we can be all chatty all the time. I'll be like, "OMG," and you'll be all, "I know!"

I Guess It Wasn't Awesome Behavior, I Don't Know

So this is kind of far up the butt of the rules and codes of conduct governing the Atlanta Lawn Tennis Association, ALTA, but it's been rankling me today. I'm rankled! There was rankling.

We hosted a home match today. (I made pasta salad with farfalle, pesto, green onions, tomatoes, and feta.) The rules state that the home team opens a new can of tennis balls with which the match is played. If the home team loses the match, we take those old balls and go home. If the home team pair wins, the visiting team gives us a can of new, unopened balls to replace the ones we played with. We then give them the game balls to take away as a consolation prize. It seems complicated and the first season I played, it was confusing, but it boils down to this: one way or another, the loser is out a can of balls.

Today I played with S, a girl I don't know well but I really like. She is Venezuelan and we have a slight language barrier, but she is very sweet and we have always won together. Today we won again. Now, to set the scene: It was 88 degrees, no shade anywhere. I was wearing heavy-duty sunscreen from my hairline down to my ankles. I'd been hydrating since breakfast and my urine was as clear as a pure mountain stream. I was ready to play. Also a part of the scene: I am a nice person. Okay.

We beat them 6-0, 6-0. They barely won any points in those games. I was thinking, they must be really new, 'cause S and I play fine but we are not, like, killer tennis monsters. I was all Nice Becky during our two quick sets, being cheerful because I AM cheerful, making pleasant chat between games, calling out "good shot" when they hit a good shot, etc. One girl seemed happy enough to be playing but the other one was like a wet rag. I don't know. When we won our match point, I went right to the end of the net to shake hands and all that, and S and I said the standard things, "Great match, thanks for playing, you played some great points, etc." These girls didn't really want to be friends, it seemed, so we all started packing up our stuff.

At this point there is usually the business of gathering up the game balls and putting them in their can. I would say, "Here you go" and give them the old balls and they would hand over a new can. We would thank them, sisterhood would flourish. But that's not what happened. I held out the can of old balls and one girl said, "You keep them," and then they both bee lined for the gate.

When they were gone, S said, "See, I thought they were supposed to give us balls, right?" I said, "Yes, they are." And I knew that they knew it, because in the little chat that we were able to squeeze from them, we established that the wet-rag girl has been playing for two years. They were avoiding the ball handover. Which made me want to make a thing out of it. I said to S, "Do you want to me to mention it?" And she said, "Yes, you do it, you can make it sound better than me."

So I don't know what got into me, and this is not how manners operate, as I have understood them all my life, in years of being drilled in ladylike modes of not seeming to put oneself first and never drawing attention to the lapses of others, etc. But I went and ASKED FOR THE NEW BALLS.

S and I followed those girls to the picnic area and as we got there, I called out, so breezily (BREEZY!), "Lisa, do you have a can of balls?" And that girl did not speak to me, she just rooted in her bag and pulled out a can and handed it to me with a little pronation of her wrist that I can only describe as pure bitch. I am sorry but you would have thought the same if you'd been there. When I am faced with that kind of attitude, I become like the freaking Homecoming Queen. Amy, you know what I'm talking about. I trilled my thanks to her and passed them to S. Then I knelt down to the girl's little daughters who were standing there by the picnic table and said, "Do you guys want some watermelon? And did you see these cookies?" I was the soul of warm, inclusive festivity. Their mother said, "They saw them."

Fun!

So okay, I KNOW that I should have just let the whole ball thing go, and I have on other occasions. New players sometimes don't have the whole ball trading token ritual thing figured out and so what. A can of balls costs three dollars. Not a huge prize. But rules are rules, and the main thing is I sensed that those girls just DIDN'T WANT TO HAND OVER THE BALLS.

HAND OVER THE BALLS!

(At this point I am like balls balls balls, how many times can I say balls?!?)

So Reader, I know I did not exhibit top drawer behavior. I felt equal parts grubby and vindicated after the whole scene. And as we sat on the bleachers, eating our chicken salad croissants and watching the matches that were still going on, our captain came over and said she'd just caught the tail end of a convo at the picnic table in which one of my opponents was saying, indignantly, "Well it's a shame because it's supposed to be about having fun." And I wanted to turn around and yell, "I'M HAVING FUN." But she was probably talking about something else.

I came home and told Matt about it and several minutes later, I said, "But was I wrong to ask for the balls? I wanted S to have them back!" And he was like, "Rules are rules. Are we still talking about this? What?"

I know that you would like it if I would take my tennis balls and jog slowly away toward the horizon right now so you can stop hearing about this world. The good news is, today was our last regular season match. The bad news for you is, we made the playoffs!

Oh yeah baby, coveted bag tag here I come!

Seacrest out.

The Other 49.8%

Laura has a lot of little apps on her iTouch that prognosticate on different matters. Like a Magic 8 Ball gone digital. The other day in the car, she entered my birthday into some app and then informed me that I have now lived 50.2% of my life.

I both hope that is right and protest that it isn't giving me enough credit.

In the interest of making that number more like 40%, I've made a lot of changes in the last couple of years. Basically they all boil down to cruciform vegetables.

(Get it? Boil down! Vegetables? Oh ho! Japery.)

I mean, in addition to the 999 pieces of evidence that broccoli, cauliflower, and cabbage are superfoods and should be in your diet, there is more and more evidence mounting that these foods have specific anticancer activity.

So okay, I've been on this journey of wonderful cruciferous discovery and meanwhile, Matt decided to lose weight too. He also uses the MyFitnessPal app, and he's lost thirty pounds (or more?) since the first of the year. We are becoming the thin couple.

In our years of keeping house together, Matt has only ever gone on purpose to buy the ingredients for and request that I make two dishes. One is my lentil soup, which, you know, I won't lie, is very good. And the other is this broccoli-cauliflower purée. Now, wait, if you are thinking, "broccoli-cauliflower purée, where is the yummy in that?" just listen. Something about puréeing those things yields a texture and taste that is magically delightful. You would swear that there was a potato in it. It seems starchy or creamy or something. And if you are counting calories, it is basically free.

You need:

olive oil
an onion, chopped
clove or two of garlic, chopped
couple of carrots, chopped or shredded
a couple crowns of broccoli cut into pieces
cauliflower, half a large head or whole small head, cut up
broth of your choosing
half cup of ricotta cheese
chili pepper paste (optional)
a handheld immersion blender, or a good countertop blender and lots of patience

In a cast iron dutch oven, first I cook the onion, garlic, and carrots in some fat. Today I used like a tablespoon of olive oil, but I've also used ghee. When the onion is cooked and has little brown bits on it, I pour about a cup of broth in. I use chicken broth but you could vegan it up. Let that simmer while you get your broccoli/cauliflower ready. I even cut up the broccoli stems, just in very thin slices. Honey badger don't care. Then you dump all the cut up veggies into the pot and pour the rest of the container of broth in. I added water to get the liquid about halfway up the sides of the veggies. Then put the lid on tightly and bring to a boil. You're basically going to boil some of the veggies and steam some of them. A couple of times, open the lid and mix the whole business around with a spoon. You should throw in some salt and pepper here.

When they're tender but not too tender, turn off the heat. Then get your immersion blender out and go to town. Pulse that stuff, being careful not to splatter yourself with boiling hot vegetable parts. When it is starting to look mashed up, pause and add a few dollops of your chili paste. I use that tube of chopped chilis that you find in the produce section. It is key, I think. Blend a little more. Then add half a cup of ricotta cheese and go at it with the blender just a bit more. It should now have a smooth texture and a pretty green color.

Serve with grated parmesan, sour cream, or a few slivers of butter. I won't tell.

A big bowl has about 130 calories, I think? And that's good, because that's all the room I had left in my calorie budget today. Laura had a well-checkup at the doctor's and got three shots, and THEREFORE, she, Hank, and I all got milkshakes at Chick fil A afterwards. I finally had the banana pudding milkshake, and it was everything I'd hoped. Then I got home and looked it up in myfitnesspal and saw that the small shake (the small, mind you) has 780 calories. And I won't even tell you how many grams of sugar. I straight up fuh-reaked out.

I hollered for Matt like I'd eaten deadly nightshade. I wailed, "But the other flavors of shake are only like 500 calories! What's with the banana pudding one?" He was like, "Uh...pudding?"

So, yes, pudding. I gorged on the pudding milkshake of heedlessness, and tonight I sip the veggie purée of penitence.

Enjoy in health.

I Chop Wood, I Carry Water

Good weekend here. Saturday morning, Matt took Laura to a swim meet and I went to work a volunteer shift at the spring carnival at Hank's school. Look, velcro wall!

My job was to take tickets at and oversee the Big Kahuna inflatable slide. The key task was to keep the kids from piling up at the bottom of the slide and smashing into each other. We strive for injury-free operations at the Big Kahuna. It was very fun but kind of cray-zay. Two hours of directing that traffic was all I could handle, and I was happy to see my relief worker show up at noon. Then Hank and I were free to doodle around the magic show, train ride, sideshow games, and petting zoo filled with long-suffering goats.

Today I had a tennis match out in Dacula, which is basically in East Egypt. It was fun and we played well, but we lost, and when my partner double-faulted at match point, it was a really good opportunity for me to practice my Zen detachment from this world and its endless cycles of desire and frustration.

Then I got to the picnic area and a girl said, "There's beer in this cooler," and she lifted the lid to reveal no beer at all, and it was a really good opportunity for me to say, "You people DRANK ALL THE BEER?!?" really loudly, and I know they will be thrilled to have me back anytime because of my good sportsmanship.

Then some people hugged me because they felt sorry for me, probably about the beer, and I drove home.

There I changed clothes and we went to a little birthday gathering at Pretty Neighbor's house, where I had cake AND beer. Also more hugs.

Then I changed back into my tennis clothes and played two sets of singles with Matt. We left the kids at home watching Tintin. It got dark and the wind gusted. I was up four games in the first set, and then the ball pinged off my frame and into my eye. It hurt a lot right in the moment, but I was mostly chagrined to have gotten hit in the face with a ball twice in one week. I pressed my palm to my eye for a while and then it was okay. My jaw, however STILL HURTS from getting hit on Thursday. I need to get better at tennis before I suffer serious injury.

I think that hit to the eye broke my spirit, because he took that set and went 6-0 in the next.

Also, lesson: I never want to get punched in the jaw. Because that was just a TENNIS BALL that hit me, Lord!

Now I am sore in a few different places. And I'm going to watch a little of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Matt and I once tried to listen to that book on tape and we couldn't do it. It was too complicated to be an audiobook. We kept going, "Wait, who? Who is that? What?" and rewinding. And finally we stopped.

Did you have a good weekend? Here comes the week, rushing straight at us. Let's be careful out there.

Lunch Lady

I get slowly better at doing this life. Some things are obvious, I know, but I am just now getting wise to them.

That last sentence should be engraved on my tombstone.

One small victory in my domestic sphere is that I'm finally making the kids' lunches at night and not in the morning before school. I know. I know! For the five previous years of Laura's elementary school career, she has bought lunch at school, despite the fact that the food there is not that good. Somehow I thought that she preferred it that way, and that it was more convenient. Turns out, she would rather bring her lunch from home because that way, she can choose her seat as soon as her class enters the lunchroom. When she buys lunch there, she has to go through the line and then accept the vagaries of lunch table seating fate, or, even worse, sit at the dreaded "overflow table," from whose bourn no traveler returns.

Laura, self-portrait.

So now we're packing her lunch at night and she is free to place herself precisely in the coterie of her choosing.

She gets: cheese quesadilla, boiled egg, fruit, yogurt, juice box, and a crunchy (crackers or the popcorn Matt makes nightly).

Hank gets: peanut butter and jelly sandwich, fruit, yogurt, juice box, and crunchy.

I don't do pretty bento lunches, and I over-rely on baggies. But again, progress is slow for me in some areas.

Related: my beagle can count to four. Whenever I start to make Hank a sandwich (a zillion times a day), she smells the peanut butter or something and stations herself at my feet. She knows that I will cut the crusts off and feed them to her. I make a cut to each side of the sandwich, and she eats them one, two, three, four and then turns and walks away. Genius counting dog!

I'm telling you about this lunch thing because when it is late and I am tired, I think, "I still need to make lunches." And here lately in April, I think, "I still have to make lunches. And blog." So I am using the one to furnish forth a post for the other.

....

I will not lie, I had a pretty awesome day today.

Even though it started off with a fretful and feverish Hank. I assessed him this morning and decided that he needed his ear checked by the doc. They could see us at 9:50, which gave me time to go through the drop-off line at Hank's school and drop off not him, but the day's snack for his class. I am the snack mom this week, and I couldn't let the kids go without their individual cups of applesauce. Then I drove through the rain towards the doctor's office, thinking about how hard we are all trying. Just trying hard to get things right and do things well, all of us, you and you and me. And I thought, "I should just say to myself, 'You are trying hard, to do right and do your best. Good work.'"

Then we got to the doctor and they were able to see Hank quickly, and all was well. I got him medicated and got him set up comfortably at home. And I know it sounds weird, but I treasured the ordinariness and remediability of that ear infection. Little problems with ready solutions.

After lunch, thinking the rain would cancel all tennis-related activities for the day, I did the shred workout with Pretty Neighbor. Then my foster children came over to play. Then, later in the afternoon, PN and I fed our kids together at my house and then went to a meeting for rising sixth-graders at the middle school.

Middle school!

This school is just like Lake Wobegon; all the kids there are above average.

While I was at the meeting, my tennis buddy T called me and said the courts were dry and that we were on at 7:30, our first match in the T2 season. (T2 is a so-called flex league, where you just grab a partner, get matched with opponents, and schedule your own matches.)

I went home, greeted the kids, changed clothes, and went up to the courts. I was nervous because we're new to this league. And y'all, we had such a great match! T and I won in three sets, it was really close: 6-2, 4-6, 6-4. We knew the girls we were playing against, and I remembered them as much better players than us.

But we've gotten better! And, as Matt says, they stayed the same.

At one point, the score was 15-all and the girl hit a lob to the corner on my backhand side. I was running to it, watching the little yellow ball, seeing nothing else, when all the lights on the court went out. We were plunged into black darkness. For a second I thought that I had gone blind, because I couldn't understand why I could no longer see that yellow ball.

Then we moved to the other court and replayed the point and then there was winning! So much more fun to win in a competitive match than to crush or be crushed.

I know, one of those tennis blogs.

We played for over two hours, yet when I came home the kids were still awake. I set that right and visited with Matt. Then I made lunches. And here we are.

Goodness I do go on! Thanks for reading me. I hope you found some pleasure in your day. xoxo

A Searching and Fearless Moral Inventory

Tennis practice this morning was kind of weird. Yeah, this has become one of the those blogs where I talk to you not about the sport of tennis, like, in itself, but about my local culture of tennis and how it makes me feel. You know, one of those blogs.

So why was it weird? First off, we were all pretty rusty after having had a week or ten days off. Only my friend T had played over break, but that girl watches tennis on youtube (vids of the Bryan brothers) and takes notes. Girl is dedicated. Anyway, we were all rusty but I in particular played like ass. Such that, at one point, the coach called out, "Becky, WHAT? You're just not swinging at all!" And I tried to yell, "Yes Coach!" but while I'm talking I'm comically clumsy. It's like I was all, "Okay, I got this!" then slipped on a banana peel. Or stepped into a mop bucket. The tennis equivalent of that.

Also, I didn't get to hang with my cadre of buddies, but was paired with a perfectly nice woman I'll be partners with on Thursday. We won a match together a couple of weeks ago, for our other team (a lot of these girls are on the same two teams, confusing). She's fine, we just don't know each other that well.

Meanwhile, Debbie Downer, from last week's post, is paired with Pretty Neighbor again this week. And not to beat a dead horse, or dogpile on someone who, as I have already stated, is a bit crazy, while we were on vacation she sent a whackadoo email to the whole team, apologizing for having played badly and enumerating specific areas of her game she was going to work on. I was going to tell you immediately but really, too cringe-inducing. And today she did her best to horn into a conversation I was having with the coach about my string tension. MY string tension, mine! But enough! Let us just wish her well and return to ladylike placidity on the subject.

I don't know, Reader, but it gave me something to think on as I drove home from dropping Laura at swimming. And then the Chick fil A employee in the drive-thru line told me they were out of vanilla wafers for the new banana pudding milkshake and I was like, "Dammit! Why is everything such CRAP?"

But I rallied somewhat afterwards.

And that was a lot of what happened today.

Worst blog post EVAR.

But you have my love!

Ladies, Seriously (A Tennis Post)

I hope you guys won't think I'm mean spirited when I tell you that there is a girl on my tennis team who is a crazy ding dong. Bless her heart. She started out as merely annoying, but she has become so much more.

I mean, I'm going to spare you the details of the low-grade drama that is constitutive of ladies' doubles tennis, drama that's pervasive and constant, like microwave radiation in deep space. So, for example, when my bud T calls me after practice one day to tell me that Gravelly-Voiced pal asked her if she likes to play as my partner, because she heard maybe she didn't, and T was upset, nay, outraged, by this implication and wanted to air it all out and tell me all about it and how she loves to play with me and how Gravelly-Voiced girl is mistaken, I don't really give a crap. I mean, it didn't cause me a moment of, "Well, what if T doesn't want to play with me?" or "Where is this malicious chatter coming from?" Because while I am not laboring under the delusion that everyone thinks I am a great tennis player, I do assume that everyone likes me and wants to be my friend. This could also be a grand illusion, but it's how I move along in this world.

So there is some nitter-nattering of this kind all the time. But everyone is having a good time and improving her game, so it's a good team.

But this woman! You would recognize her as a basic Debbie Downer. Or that's how she struck me when I first met her: nothing is ever right and we're probably all walking straight into some hidden peril. She doesn't live in our neighborhood, and nobody really knows her very well. So okay, she's annoying, but this season, her behaviors and negative talk have gotten worse, and more to the point, they now take up more and more bandwidth in practice.

The way this plays out is that she is so down on herself and her playing, so loudly and constantly down on herself, that it is ABSOLUTELY CRAZY-MAKING. Reader, I don't even know how to tell you. Every shot she misses, she either wants to explain why, or she wants to berate herself, not with a quick, "Um, whoops?" but with an entire monologue that starts with how terrible she is and ends nowhere. It's like playing tennis with Eeyore.

At the beginning of this season, I thought her endless bellyaching was strategic: This is a group practice that we pay a coach to run, and the etiquette of the situation dictates that everyone is entitled to the same smallish amount of the coach's individual attention. But if you moan and bitch like you're actually dying instead of not swinging through on your backhand, the coach will pull you aside for a little private session at the end of practice. The squeaky wheel and all.

But as we've spent more time practicing together, I've come to think that, yes, in some ways she receives positive reinforcement for her behavior, but that there is something clinically wrong with her. A whole big bundle of things. I would say she has anxiety issues? But I know plenty of people dealing with anxiety and they do not bother the shit out of everyone around them.

Okay, so if we fast-forward through my venting, we get to how I was paired with her as partners for our match the week before last. When I saw the line-up, I was fine with it. The hilarious part is that the girl can actually play pretty good tennis. So I thought, okay, this isn't a cross-country road trip together, it's a morning tennis match. Let's play.

Then our team captain sidles up to me in practice and says, "I'm sorry that you're playing with Eeyore. Somebody has to play with her and this week it's you." And I was embarrassed that she even said that, I was embarrassed that she drew me into a situation where I was expected to speak ill of someone, which I would rather not do. (That's what blogging is for.) I don't know, it was awkward. So I just said, brightly, "It's fine! It's great!"

Then, THEN, the next day I was up at the courts before Laura's lesson, and our coach came over to me. She began, "Now Becky, when you play your match this week, you're gonna have to be sort of a psychologist."

Okay, you know you're crazy when the coach is trying to help other people deal with how crazy you are.

She went on to advise me to stay positive and not indulge the girl's constant self-downing, to remind her to focus on the point at hand, etc. The best part was when she said, "I'm sorry, because I know this puts more pressure on you," and Pretty Neighbor, who was standing nearby and who was glued to this exchange, piped up and said, "Oh, Becky doesn't care about that." I laughed because it was true! Honey Badger don't care!

Long story short, Eeyore and I went out to play our match and won the first set, 6-4. Then we lost the next set 4-6. Okay, it was close. We were in good shape and we should have won in the third. One of the girls we were playing against was somebody I beat last year. But my partner was just in a tailspin over the errors she had made. It was crazy. Like, if she were an actress, I would have been like, "Okay, you're hamming it up here. Not believable." At one point, during a changeover, she goes, "I feel like they've gotten in our heads!" And I said, "They're not in my head! Come on!"

I'm not good enough at tennis to overcome that kind of inertial typhoon of pain, and we lost the third set worse than the second.

Then, then, THEN, just last week, she was paired with Pretty Neighbor. Their match did not go well, and PN told me she knew they were doomed even before play started. Standing chatting before warm up, Downer Girl said, "I just hope I have a good match." And then she turned to PN and said, fearfully, "But what if I don't?" PN told me, "I knew right then we were screwed." I mean, "What if I don't?"

So y'all, I feel bad for this person! I also want to stay away from her. I am sorry this post is so long. I just need to process? Just hug me, we don't have to talk.

The other night, on a whim, I thought, "I wonder if there are any books about tennis psychology?" So I googled "tennis psychology." Um, yes, there are books about that. (I'm new to sport, I didn't know sports psychology was a thing, like, at all.) So I ordered a couple of them, not to help Eeyore, because I think her issues are deeper, but to work on my own focus and discipline in match situations.

On the bright side, I have been playing a lot of tennis. I'm kind of on two teams now, did I tell you that? Hilarious. Two practices and two matches a week, plus pick up games, shirts-and-skins style, with the girls in the 'hood. Some of it is sinking in, as I have been winning more. Tiger blood.

xoxo

Unexpected Inspiration

This morning I was in Pretty Neighbor's basement and we were starting our workout. She said, "I saw your sister's new blog post but I haven't had a chance to read it yet." I paused in mid lunge--or for the purposes of this story, let's say I paused in the middle of a one-handed pushup, yeah--and said, "Wait, Amy has a new post? I just checked it and nothing!" Then I realized I've been clicking through to the post I linked in my last post instead of refreshing her page. Oh, duh.

So Amy has a new post with a bit of good news, though as she says, one's definition of "good news" can be radically reshaped in a short time.  She's also very funny. She's doing it again, being funny when I'm trying to stay mad.

On a related note, I was thinking the other day that I have these little mantras that I repeat to myself in certain situations, and they actually help me. Naturally I'm sharing them:

It is what it is. 

I know, terrible, right? Terribly overused and supposedly drained of all meaning and what does it mean anyway?

My personal history with this phrase is that, several years ago when I was taking the qualifying exams for my doctoral program, I sat for hours in a room in the Literature department office and typed answers to two or three long essay questions. They were questions designed to both draw out my ideas for future dissertation writing and to test my knowledge of the field. If I succeeded in this part, I would get to take a multi-hour oral exam given by four smart professors. So it was a big deal. I wrote and wrote. Then my time was up, and the sweet, hippie, department assistant came to get me. She printed out my work and took it, telling me that she had placed magical crystals (!) around the doorway of my exam room to help channel energy or something. I thanked her, but I kept babbling a little bit about how I wasn't sure I said enough about X or I wasn't convincing on Y. She listened to me and she said, "Well, now it is what it is." And I thought, "Yes. It is. That is finished and I need to stop worrying about it."

And when this news about Amy having breast cancer arose, I was so lodged on the terrible coincidental unfairness of it. That feeling was like a rock in my shoe. And then I thought, "It is what it is." There's no need in striving for it to have been different, that thing in the past that is now fact. It just is. What it is. It was calming to me.

Do the thing and get the power.

Matt and I say this to each other sometimes. Usually it's when we're talking over something that is hard to do or that we need to do and don't necessarily want to. Its meaning is likewise vague. I don't think it will be engraved on a monument anytime soon, but somehow it resonates with me. I think I heard this from an eccentric professor I had who is renowned for his koan-like pronouncements. Seriously, his facebook status updates are OUTLANDISH. But he said, offhandedly of some grad-school obstacle, "Do the thing and get the power." I dunno, maybe these things can't be held up to strong light. But still. Just do the thing. That thing? Do it.

Let your body hurt.

This one I heard from Laura. She says her swim coach says it to them during practice. She takes it to mean, don't stop because you're uncomfortable, just keep swimming. I often think of it during my workouts--feeling strain and discomfort will not kill me, in fact it is necessary. But I kinda go deep with it sometimes. Like, pain is not alien to human life or unnatural. It's part of living and it's part of the world. Let your body hurt and see what happens after that.

Have I taken you to a weird place? I don't know. I'm going to collect up my magic crystals and go unload the dishwasher now.

Do you have any personal mantras? Things that help you out?

Marital Strolling

On Superbowl Sunday Matt and I went for a brisk walk in our neighborhood. The air was warm and caressing and stuff was in actual bloom.

We talked of soup.

Matt allowed as how he wanted more soup in his life. I observed that I make a whole darn lot of soup as it is. And he shared with me a wish for even more. So we considered the soup landscape and how I might meet his needs within it.

I rattled down a slight hill. "I think I now fully see the world of food through soup goggles," I said. "You just start with some fat and add the aromatics, and then you can just go anywhere. It's exciting!"

Matt strode along beside me. "I don't like celery," he said.

This opinion was so objectionable that I could not admit it into the conversation. "Yes you do," I said. "I put celery in everything." I swung my arms.

Keeping up a quick pace, he said, "Well, I don't like actual chunks of celery."

Still I pooh-poohed, "Oh yes you do! You don't like celery like Hank doesn't like butter. He just doesn't want to see it or know about it, but it better be in his oatmeal!"

Matt said, "Don't invalidate my dislike of celery."

"I'm not!"

"Yes you are, you're doing exactly that." We reached a flat stretch and he sped up. I scrambled to keep pace. He was right. I was invalidating his dislike of celery.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I should not do that."

I have this tendency to think I know best in some areas, and when I think that, I won't really even hear what other people say, I'm too busy organizing my rebuttal.

I'm working on this aspect of myself, starting with soup.

Then Matt made me jog up a huge hill.

The End.

Things I've Learned about Making An Omelette

For the last four months, I've had the same breakfast most days. I'm a big believer in the maxim that you should standardize one of your meals, especially if you are trying to lose weight or monitor your intake. My two-egg and cheese omelette has 220 calories, and it staves off hunger for hours. I reached my goal weight last week (GOOOOAAAAL!), but I'm still eating the same things, pretty much. Now I'm making this breakfast for Matt every day, and all modesty aside, I have gotten really good at it.

The Lord laid it on my heart to tell you this. Honestly, I was just now standing in my kitchen, and I thought, "I need to speak to my people of these things." Now that I remember, my dad tells a story of the only time he thinks God spoke to him, and it was to tell him to get my mom to eat a good breakfast every day. For real.

So:

1) Use a small pan. I have some kind of "green" nonstick pan. I hope this means that the nonstick coating isn't killing us.

2) I put a little olive oil, like not even a teaspoon, in the pan first.

3) Let the pan get hot before pouring your beaten eggs in. I did this wrong for about two months and the whole mess stuck like crazy. Hot pan.

4) Use a soft silicone spatula to nudge the cooked edges in and let the runny egg take its place.

5) Add your sprinkling of cheese to one half of the omelette, or a little chopped tomato if you go that way.

6) Use your soft spatula to fold the omelette over, lightly and gently, like you're covering up a baby.

Enjoy in health.

I had some other post for you but OBVIOUSLY this is more important, as it concerns eggs and cheese.

Happy Monday.

I Tried a New Workout DVD Today

I have had this DVD lying around for actual years, and I never even put it in the player until today. It's the Tracey Anderson Method Mat Workout. Have you heard of this girl? She is, like, a fitness guru to the stars. I think saw her on Oprah one time with Gwyneth Paltrow. Since I pretty much do everything that Gwyneth Paltrow tells me to do, I ordered the DVD.

I just went to Amazon to look up the link for y'all, and I see that not only is the DVD no longer in print, Amazon will give me $14 if I trade it in. I am SURE that is more than I paid for it in the first place. And moreover, this is who I am: I will buy a workout video and keep it, untried, until it is a valuable collector's item, and then, only then, I will offer you a review of it.

I'm not sure how to describe this workout, exactly. It's not a full cardio-and-weight interval workout like my beloved Jillian Michaels regimen. It works on the large muscles in your hips and booty, then your upper arms and shoulders, and then your abs. For the first section, you stand holding on to a chair and do all kinds of leg lifts. In fact, I wish Tracey had mentioned that we'd need a chair for part of the workout, because I did the warm up and then she was like, "Now you need a chair for balance," and I had to go to the dining room and bring back a chair, which got me all out of my zone, you know.  So she takes you through all these different leg movements, which are great, because the leg you're lifting is working, and the leg you're standing on is working too. I was starting to sweat during this part, even though it's hardly high-speed or seemingly very intense.

Then she says you're going to do some standing ab work, but what happens is that Tracey Anderson does a sexy little dance while you try to figure out exactly what's going on with her body. I think it is some kind of rib isolation move, but she doesn't really explain it much. So I just boogied very, very awkwardly while she got her groove on. I think when I do the workout again, I'll substitute a different move.

Then she does this arm section. OMGFG SHAZBOT!!!1! I thought, no problem. She's not even holding weights, she's just standing there waving her arms in tiny little circles, like you would if you were casting spells with two magic wands simultaneously. So I'm doing it along with her, la la la, and then it feels like my arms are going to just snap off and fall to the floor. My shoulders felt like they were on fire. And she just kept on going, with her little gyrations and her cutesy pouty face. I mean, how long would you think you could hold your arms up? It shouldn't be a problem, right? But if I'm sore tomorrow, it is going to be from that. GEEZ.

Then we got down on our mat and did a bunch more leg lifting, which was mostly manageable until there was this crazy part where we're lying on our stomachs, Tracey and me, and we've got our knees bent and our heels together, and we're supposed to crunch our backs and booties and lift our legs off the mat, which is awesome for you but I feel like I'm going to the light. And I'm all, "HALP!" and she's like, "Oh yes, ahhh!"

This is where it helps to note that this is not a beginner's workout, I don't think. Or you can start it if you're new to working out, but there are large parts where you're not going to be able to approximate what is on the screen. I feel that I've gotten to where I can do 90% of this Tracey Anderson thing only after months of working out pretty regularly. Yet she doesn't say much about the difficulty level of what you're doing or the strength that it takes. For a real, true beginner, I think it could be discouraging.

Then there's a more traditional ab section on the floor, where you are doing crunches, but your legs are straight. Then she's like, "Let's cool down," and I'm like, "We've been at this for at least 45 minutes, I don't have time for a cool down. My children are hungry."

To sum up:

Some of the moves in this are probably very effective. One reviewer on Amazon said, "I saw great results. Especially in the butt area." Yes, I would say that's right.

This is a workout that your significant other will want to watch you do.

She is not the clearest at explaining what the exact form is, but the camera is on her the whole time, so you can just watch her and figure it out.

It is no substitute for a workout that actually gets your heart rate way up while working those large muscle groups, but I could see doing it a few times a week in addition to my Jillian ripping/shredding. It's different.

I've come to the conclusion that any workout works if you do it.

I am 1% more like Gwyneth now. And Madonna. Girls, call me.

That was one thing I did today. It's my parents' 43rd wedding anniversary. Also our garbage disposal stopped working. That was also a workout, though a way less sexy-looking one, unless you're into the big yellow gloves. LOLZ forever.

Happy Monday, y'all.

Mattress Open

Sometimes you lie down in your five year-old's room at bedtime and then three hours go by. Then you awaken, hot and resentful, a possible crick in your neck. Yes, a "crick." Do you suffer from these or is it a Southern malady? C-R-I-C-K. So I got me a big ol' crick in my neck and I'm lying there out of sorts and then the knowledge that I have to blog pulls me to alertness, gets me to my feet, and brings me in here to you, Reader.

I was dreaming that Matt put all the beds in the house on the living room floor, and we hosted a wrestling tournament called the Mattress Open. True dream.

In real life I would push for it to be a bit more Mattress Invitational.

Earlier, Pretty Neighbor asked me what I'd been up to today and I could not give a satisfactory answer. I do know that I went to her house for our twenty-five minute workout and it took two-and-a-half hours. First we had our preliminary chatting, which is tinged with procrastination. Then our combined five children, who are all in the house, needed to seek our attention for various things. Then we actually worked out. Then we drank a beer and had postliminary chat while it got dark. Some days that twenty-five minute workout can take as little as thirty five minutes to complete, but other days, we need the long form. I think everything in my day must have been similarly time-inflated.

She is farther along in Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet than I am, and she is not finding it so execrable, so I recommitted to finishing it.

The news of the evening was that Laura has been cast as Jacob Marley in the 5th grade performance of A Christmas Carol. This is somehow hilarious to Matt and me, and Laura is tickled. She feels that finding the exact right piece of chain will help her get to the emotional core of the character, and her "Scroooooge!" is really something to hear. Think of a pretend ghost from Scooby Doo, one unmasked by Shaggy and Velma at the end of the episode. Got it? You're there.

She wears the chains she forged in life.

For supper, I'd made a split pea soup that only Matt and I liked. Hank asked if it was "frog toes boiled in frog juice."

Somebody must have been boiled in brat juice.

Maybe I will be back tomorrow with something, anything, to say. Please continue to rock onward.