Wanda Says…This is how I know I’m getting old.

February 6, 2015February 6, 2015 / Wanda / 21 Comments

I’m getting old and this is how I know it…

1. When I was younger, I remember thinking it was very progressive when the FCC began to allow cursing on TV. I remember thinking, “What’s the big deal if someone uses a curse word on national television? It’s not like most people haven’t heard them before.” And then commercials began to evolve and I thought the adult humor and content infused into the marketing of different products was more humorous than dirty. I remember one event specifically at my grandmother’s house when she tried to shield my great-grandmother from seeing a racy scene on TV, and my great-grandmother responded by saying, “It’s not like I’ve never seen boobs before, Francis.” Fast forward twenty years, and now I’m a parent. Thanks to all the sex and adult references on every station and every network, I’ve mastered the sport of living room gymnastics. All parents know what this is. It’s the sport that’s all the rage in any family living room with small children. It’s the act of diving, jumping, tumbling, rolling, running, or hurdling furniture, small people or pets in order to get to the remote on time to either hit the mute button or change the channel when you realize that what’s happening on the television is not appropriate for your child to hear, see or imitate. (And I’d like to thank every network that showed the new SI Swimsuit cover and all the 50 Shades of Grey trailers for the extra gymnastics practice this week. I really enjoyed trying to field my ten year old daughter’s questions about why that girl was being blindfolded, and why that other girl was practically bearing her private girly parts on the cover of a magazine. Thanks for that). I’ve become that crotchety old person who complains that commercials are filled with unnecessary sexual references and that there isn’t enough quality family television suitable for my kids to watch during prime time, and that just blows.

2. When I see a pack of teenagers walking down my street and they stop to loiter in front of my house, I want to tell them to get off my lawn. I have a nice lawn with nice bushes and flowers, and I don’t want them to litter in my yard or fuck up my grass. Get off my lawn you lazy hooligans! (I can’t believe I care about this).

3. It’s difficult for me to stay up past 10pm, even on a weekend. I force myself to stay up on weekends because it’s ridiculous and I refuse to go to bed at nine o’clock on a Saturday. If my husband and I are out with friends or having a few drinks, I seem to be more energized and can rally to the occasion, but as soon as the action’s over my body goes into complete shut down mode. I need my sleep like my grandmother needs to watch the Wheel of Fortune every night, or as she likes to call it, “The Wheel.”

4. If I have more than three alcoholic drinks in one evening it takes me a week to recover. Seriously. A week. Who’s got time for that shit? I can’t feel like death for a week. So when I do drink wine or other alcoholic beverages, I try and keep it under three drinks and I have to drink a liter of water in between. Otherwise my skin is dehydrated and wrinkly and I get headaches that feel like they last a thousand years. I long for the days in college when I had the energy and stamina to go out five nights a week, stayed out until 2am and was still able to make it to an 8am class. I don’t necessarily want to engage in those activities, I just wish I still had that kind of energy.

These will make your toes feel like they’re being cut off with a butter knife.

5. I now choose function over fashion, every day. Is it comfortable? Stretchy? Will those shoes make my feet hurt if I walk more than ten feet in them? I live in yoga pants and t-shirts. I’m with kids all day and no one gives a shit what I look like. And the last time I made an effort to wear super cute high-heeled boots to a party, I ended up losing a toenail and needing first aid by the end of the night. My poor husband had to practically carry me to the car, and it took me six months to regrow that toenail. When I was 30, I would have toughed it out and claimed, “beauty is pain!” But now, I’m too old for that shit. Give me blue jeans and tennis shoes, any day. (I do get dressed up and fancy for dates with my man, but that’s different than my 6am to 10pm work-as-a-stay-at-home-mom dress code, and I always wear comfortable shoes).

I prefer these.

6. The music I love and came of age on is now only played on the oldies stations. I remember being a kid and being mortified when my parents listened to ‘their music.’ I can recall my dad rocking out to the 50’s and 60’s and thinking he was the oldest man in the world. My mom listened to Neil Diamond, Helen Reddy, James Taylor and Barry Manilow. Now, I love all four of these artists, and I am a Fanilow. The first concert I ever went to was Barry Manilow and I was eight years old. I will never forget those palm trees coming out of the stage when he sang Copacabana. I loved him, and still do. However, when I was a teenager, I remember thinking my parents were so uncool because they didn’t understand MY music. They couldn’t understand how important Aerosmith was to me, or Foreigner. Journey, AC/DC, Steve Miller Band, ZZ Top, Creedence Clearwater Revival, the soundtracks to both Grease 1 and 2, and eventually Madonna and Guns N Roses. And then I went through my New Kids On The Block stage (don’t judge me), and eventually it was all about Grunge. Nirvana, Bush, Alanis Morissette, the Stone Temple Pilots and Smashing Pumpkins. My mother would shake her head at me and tell me to turn that crap down. And now, I find myself listening to the popular music of today and thinking, “How does anyone listen to this shit?!”

7. According to my husband, my hearing is going. When I ask Dan a question, if he answers by saying, “No” all I hear is, “Yeah.” I rarely ask him to repeat himself.

8. New appliances excite me. You know you’re old when you get excited over buying a new dishwasher, power washer, or coffee maker. I got a new Dyson vacuum cleaner for Christmas and I felt like I won the lottery.

9. I get turned on watching my husband do chores. Man flesh does nothing for me. Pictures of hot guys bearing their chests and showcasing a six-pack leaves me feeling…meh. But watching my husband do dishes, laundry, rescue wayward animals, and play at the park with our kids is the equivalent of old people porn. Confident, successful, and happily domesticated men are sexy. Period.

10. When my daughter asks me, “Mom, how old were you when you got your first cell phone?” LOL! She’s mad at me because I won’t let her have a cell phone until she’s 13. She has classmates who have them now and she feels left out. In my opinion, fifth graders don’t need cell phones. So when I told her I was 25 when I had my first cell phone, it was a regular phone, there was no app for that, it was the size of a regular cordless house phone, and I kept it in my glove box and used it only for emergencies because it cost like, fifty dollars per minute, she looked at me like I smoked crack. And she learned about crack in school, so it was a nasty look. Also, I seem to repel technology, and watching my kids run circles around me with new devices, games and programs makes me feel like my grandmother must have felt when I showed her how to use a cassette tape deck on my new boom box when I was in high school.

So, now that we’ve established the undeniable fact that I am turning into a crabby, appliance loving, no sexy shoe wearing, chase the hooligans off my lawn kind of spinster, what makes you feel old?

Wanda Says…No Bandits!

February 4, 2015 / Wanda / 6 Comments

My daughter Bryn is ten years old and in the fifth grade. We live one block from her school. At the beginning of the school year she begged me to let her walk to school by herself. She had a convincing argument. She said, “It’s only a block, mom, and I’m old enough to walk a block by myself.” (To be read with the required level of pre-teen sarcasm and eye rolling).

She’s right, of course. When I was her age we played outside every day after school, running around the neighborhood, riding our bikes everywhere. As long as we were home by the time the street lights came on, our mom wouldn’t stand in the yard shouting our names until we came running. She is old enough to walk a block, and farther, by herself.

But life today isn’t the same as when I was her age. The dangers are real, and I do not trust the general population with the safety of my children. I think most people are genuinely caring and look out for kids in their neighborhoods, but it’s the person late for work that accelerates too quickly down their driveway without watching for school age kids on the sidewalk, and the child predators who look like nice people just wanting to stop and chat for a few seconds that scare the shit out of me. I feel bad that she isn’t allowed to run the neighborhood like I did at her age, but none of her friends are allowed to do that either. All of her friend’s parents are just as cautious as I am.

But she’s ten, and she is responsible and knows how to cross a street, watch for traffic, and not talk to strangers. I can’t choose to hold her back from something that is developmentally appropriate and allows her to grow because it scares me. So the least I can do to allow her some measure of independence is to let her walk to school by herself. She loves it. She feels like such a big girl, and I love seeing that look of satisfaction on her face when she walks in the door after school.

But I hate it. I hate not being there to watch over and protect her for the four minutes it takes her to walk one block.

I silently stress out every morning when we say good-bye at the front door. I watch her walk down the driveway, and I don’t stop watching until she rounds the corner and is out of my line of sight. And then I surreptitiously keep my eye on the clock. I know that as long as the school doesn’t call here by 9am that she made it safely. I start watching the clock again at 2:30pm. She’s usually home by 2:40pm, and then I take a deep breath and relax.

This is what I look like when I’m protecting my kids. For real.

I know this sounds obsessive and crazy. Especially to a younger person who has never had kids. But having children changes you. Having children brings out your protective instincts in a way nothing else can. I became the mother bear. I am that dangerous female Grizzly that will rip your throat out if you even think about physically harming one of my children. And I’m not alone. Thankfully, I’m in good company with all the other Grizzly mothers at Bryn’s school. We all agree that allowing our children to walk to school at a certain age is a necessary risk to help them mature, grow and learn to be responsible for themselves and recognize potentially dangerous situations and how to handle them. They need to know how to apply and use all the advice we’ve given them. “Look both ways before you cross the street, don’t talk to strangers, be aware of who’s around you and if someone approaches you and tries to get you to go with them, you drop your backpack, scream for help and run like hell is chasing you.” Well, I didn’t give her that last bit of advice in exactly those words, but she got the message.

So, I let her walk to school. The first few weeks were the hardest for me. About three weeks in I was sort of grilling her at the dinner table, trying to be nonchalant and casual about it. I didn’t want to be up in her face with overly detailed questions, but I wanted to know how it was going. I was obsessing, and I guess I wasn’t as subtle as I’d hoped because she looked at me and said, “It’s good, mom. There’s no bandits!” As she said this, she winked at me in a jaunty way and made finger guns. LOL!

In that moment she made me laugh out loud with her cheeky sense of humor, eased my fears and reassured me that she truly is a big girl, which broke my heart a little too. Now every morning when she leaves for school and kisses all of us good-bye, we all say, “No Bandits!” 🙂

Wanda Says…I lost my mind, and joined a gym.

February 1, 2015February 1, 2015 / Wanda / 5 Comments

I did it.

Today, I did what I swore for years I would never do.

Today, I bought a gym membership. And signed a contract. For one year. And paid money (or a small piece of my soul) to have several sessions with a personal trainer.

Whhhhhaaaaatttttt??????????

I know. I must be out of my fucking mind.

This vector is proof that I’m not wrong in my opinion of this.

I hate gyms. I’ve always hated gyms and the culture of organized fitness clubs. I find the atmosphere in these places to be very intimidating, shallow, competitive and judgey. I’ve mentioned this before in previous posts, but I will say it again….it does not motivate me or make me feel good to work out next to a person wearing panty shorts and a sports bra. Or a guy who looks like He-Man on steroids and refuses to put on a shirt.

While I can appreciate the hard work it takes to maintain that level of physical fitness, and I can admit to a small amount of envy for my own lack of mental strength and stick-to-it-ness in achieving my own fitness goals, it’s more the flaunting of flesh and show-boating that turns me off. It’s the fact that the gym is as much of a meat market and pick up joint as any trendy Hollywood club. It’s the cancerous feeling that screams if you don’t look like this, something is wrong with you and not the culture these attitudes create. (And for the record, I have several really fit, attractive friends who work out in gyms regularly and they admit this environment is also a turn off for them as well, so I’m not just making this shit up, folks).

Anyway, although I prefer to work out at home, that hasn’t been working out too well for me. It’s too easy for me to find a thousand excuses to put it off because I have so many other things that need to get done. I don’t have any real accountability, and I’m sick of feeling like a big, fat cow. I’ve been holding onto this baby weight for too long and its aging me. I feel it in the slowness of my steps and the daily fatigue that is not commensurate with my activity levels.

So at my husband’s suggestion, off to the gym we went. We took both kids and had an appointment to take a tour. Dan chose an upscale, popular gym in our area that has several amenities he thought would appeal to me. Amenities that make this gym feel more like a resort than just a fitness club. There’s a restaurant/café and day spa on the premises in addition to the pools, basketball courts, group exercise rooms, daycare, and equipment areas. There is also a women’s only workout room, which Dan thought I would really like.

This is NOT allowed.

I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived at the gym. There were a lot of middle age to older people working out and most of the clientele were dressed in appropriate workout gear. And it turns out that this gym has rules with regard to how you’re allowed to dress in the public areas of the club. There was a whole list of ‘gym etiquette’ rules the sales rep gave us to review that had my head spinning and challenging all my preconceptions about what this gym experience would entail. (Most of you probably already knew many gyms did that, but I’m the ignorant one because I’ve refused to step foot in a fitness club for years).

I began to feel hopeful that maybe this could work. Maybe I could actually join a gym and not feel like Martha Dump-Truck working out in my baggy t-shirt and sweats. Maybe there would be real people working out next to me, and not caricatures of Ken and Barbie, and I would feel supported in my efforts to lose weight and be healthy instead of judged and laughed at for being the only person in the room who doesn’t have a clue how to use a spin cycle.

We also met with the personal training director, and he was incredibly attentive and considerate toward my concerns with working out with a trainer. I admitted that I need someone with experience to help me set up a fitness plan and check in with me every month so I can keep moving in the right direction. I need someone to push me and kick my ass a little. But I adamantly explained that I had no interest in working out with a 25 year old that had never had kids and had no personal experience with how the body changes in middle age after having children. Again, he totally understood and said he had a few trainers he thought would work really well for me.

I was shocked! I couldn’t believe that this could be so simple. That I can have a trainer who is a middle-aged woman with kids, and understands how the body changes after advanced maternal age pregnancy, and I don’t have to work out next to Adam Ab-Crusher is more than I could have hoped for!

Until……I toured the women’s locker room. Sigh.

I guess it was too much to expect that everything would be perfect. The locker room was as nice and well-appointed as any locker room at a high end spa. It was clean, beautifully decorated with a state of the art steam room, sauna, private whirlpool in the room for women only and curtained changing areas to protect your modesty, if you care about that sort of thing. What I found shocking on this part of the tour was how many women didn’t care about that. Their modesty, that is.

To quote my friend Stacia, who is intimately familiar with gym locker rooms, the atmosphere is very “YWCA circa 1964.” All the younger women were decently covered with towels or their clothing. However, most of the older women were strolling around naked from head to toe, with the only towel they had wrapped around their head. Bryn was with me on the tour and she got quite an eyeful. To her credit, she kept her composure and didn’t say anything to reveal how embarrassed she was. It was a lot of National Geographic style boobies and gray pubes on display for everyone to see. Now, I was raised to appreciate my body and not be ashamed of it, but I was also raised to have a sense of modesty in the presence of others. These women had no problem being stark naked in front of complete strangers! While I could never do that, no matter how good I looked, I would still kill for that kind of confidence!

So, the upside to all this is that I don’t have to work out next to someone wearing panty shorts and a sports bra, and I get to have a trainer who will understand my body and how to help me change it. The downside is that I have to share a locker room with naked grannies who like to rock what they’ve got.

LOL! Wish me luck!

Wanda Says…On the subject of Dutch Ovens and growing up with boys.

January 13, 2015 / Wanda / 16 Comments

I have two brothers.

I am the middle child of three and grew up sandwiched between two rowdy, rough and tumble boys.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how growing up with my brothers and the experiences we’ve shared has shaped my personality. Growing up in a house outnumbered by boys is not an environment where you can afford to be delicate or have a thin skin. In our household everyone had colorful, strong personalities, and it was very much an emotional and physical battleground for attention and personal space. There were three of us, so two were always ganging up on one, and being the only girl, I often got the short end of that stick.

As a child I was very gullible and believed everything my older brother told me. He once told me if I ate the crust of bread I would turn into a werewolf. I believed him and refused to eat bread crust for several weeks. He also told me that if I didn’t wear a training bra, my boobs would grow under my arm pits because the bra “trained” my boobs to grow forward. After a week of refusing to take off my training bra, even in the shower or to sleep, I had to confess to my mother my fears of having arm pit boobs. She punished my brother for his lies and I could finally sleep without having nightmares of waking up with a deformed chest. These are two small examples of how my brother liked to dupe or manipulate me, and because of his special training, I like to think as an adult that I’m more savvy when it comes to seeing through people’s bullshit.

Screw you guys.

I am desensitized to the smell of man farts and have been since I was seventeen years old. There are only so many Dutch Ovens a girl can survive until she completely loses her ability to give a shit. Great, you shit your pants next to my head and threw a blanket over me to trap the smell. Good for you big boy, can we move on now? But don’t forget to sleep with one eye open. Of course, I am now married to the one man in the entire world who doesn’t think it’s polite to pass gas in front of anyone. I believe this is Karma rewarding me for all the fart related suffering I endured as a teenager. However, I do have a four year old son, and so far he is not following his father’s example in this regard. But then again, neither is my daughter.

Male nudity doesn’t faze me, at all. When my brothers were teenagers they became more conscientious about their state of dress around me, but that didn’t stop them from engaging in typical, immature male behavior. There was enough mooning, bull dogs, flashing, pressed ham and dares to streak across the neighborhood to prevent me from ever being curious about dangly man parts.

I am not capable of being a doormat for anyone. Growing up, I had to learn to hold my ground with my brothers. We fought a lot. Sometimes with words, and sometimes physically. My mom was a single mother with three kids and she didn’t have the time or energy to be a referee for every little thing. I remember when I was maybe eight years old, my older brother would hold me down and dangle a stream of spit over my face, waiting until the last second to suck it up into his mouth. I hated this. It felt like torture. One time in particular, I had had enough and I snapped. I can clearly remember the anger and frustration over not being able to move while he pinned me to the floor and taunted me in the way only siblings can do. My anger became physical, and somehow it fueled my strength. I kicked my legs up and over his shoulders pulling him down backwards. Then I pinned him to the ground and spit right in his eye! He cried and screamed, and I felt soooooo good. I was victorious! I was David and he was Goliath and I bested him with my legs and a wad of spit! Then my mom grounded me for un-lady like behavior, so that took some of the euphoria out of my victory, but that was the last time he ever did that to me.

While growing up with my brothers could be frustrating and traumatic at times, I remember always looking up to my older brother when I was young because he knew how to do all the things my younger brother and I couldn’t do. He could work the TV and VCR. He knew what channel everything was on, and when we finally got cable he and I would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and watch HBO and Showtime when our mom was asleep. One time, we snuck out of bed and watched A Clockwork Orange, and we both agree that movie scarred us for life. Another time, all three of us took our mom’s tape recorder and we sat in the boy’s bedroom and made a swear tape. We took turns saying swear words and recorded ourselves cussing and laughing so hard we couldn’t breath. It’s hard to believe how funny we thought the word “butthole” was. I also remember we liked playing hide and seek in the house, and on one occasion my younger brother hid in the clothes dryer. So I slammed the door closed and turned it on to get him back for wrecking my brand new yellow bicycle. It had rainbows and streamers all over it, and he wrecked it trying to jump it off a homemade ramp in the driveway. Again, I was outnumbered by boys and felt such victory in that moment! (I only let him thump around in the dryer for about ten seconds, but those ten seconds were sweet!)

Although I would have denied this as a sixteen year old, the truth is that I loved growing up with my brothers. There were cycles of bonding and revenge, maturity and immaturity that bound the three of us together. My brothers were very protective over me as teenagers, taught me how to defend myself, to be independent and take shit from no one, especially them. To this day my older brother is one of my best friends. We talk on the phone several times each week, and sometimes a few times a day.

For good or bad, Dutch Ovens or unending laughter, I wouldn’t trade my brothers or our memories for anything. 🙂

PS–My older brother called me today as I was writing this post and I told him what I was writing about. He said, “Do you remember when I used to hold you down and do the spit stream over your face?” Ahhhh, good times.

Wanda Says…Pilates is hard.

January 12, 2015January 12, 2015 / Wanda / 8 Comments

I’ve always wanted to try Pilates, but honestly, what little I’ve seen of it really intimidates me. I’ve never seen curvaceous women or people who need to lose weight doing Pilates. It’s always super sculpted women with flat and tight everything rocking those moves like it’s no big deal. It’s always left me with the impression that Pilates is one of those workouts you tackle after you’re in great shape, not when you’re trying to get into shape.

My neighbor and good friend recently suggested I attend a Pilates class with her. I wanted to go but I was afraid, not fully knowing what to expect, that I would make a complete ass out of myself. I am one of those curvaceous women you never see doing Pilates. Plus, even when you use a workout mat, when you have big boobs, laying face down on the floor and smashing the girls into an unforgiving surface is not something to look forward too. So, just to try it out in the privacy of my own home first, I got a beginners Pilates DVD so I could do a few of the workouts and really see for myself what it was all about. Let me stress, the workout I got was for beginners.

Holy workout hell!

It doesn’t look hard at first, until you try to balance on your tailbone with your arms and legs fully extended in the air. Or balance on your side and hip and lift your legs and shoulders off the ground using only your stomach muscles. That’s when shit gets real.

The core basics workout was insane. I realize my core needs work, but I couldn’t get my body to do half of what the instructor was doing. My muscles just wouldn’t respond to my brain’s command to lift my legs and my upper body off the floor at the same time, and every exercise was a variation of this move. Additionally, my lower back and tailbone are sensitive to pressure, so there is no way I can properly balance on my tailbone without experiencing pain. Even now, over an hour after finishing the workout my neck, shoulders and tailbone are still pulsing with discomfort. I’m sure I was doing it wrong….but you have to have abs of fucking steel to do these moves. In fact, hold on…I need to get an Advil.

Maybe if I found a class that stressed it was for beginners it would be better, but for now I’m going to go find a heating pad and raid my husband’s medicine cabinet for some Bengay and call it a day.

Pilates=Epic Fail.

Wanda Says…Oreos are my crack.

January 9, 2015 / Wanda / 23 Comments

I’m addicted to Oreos. These cookies are my crack.

As a rule I try to keep junk food out of the house. It’s unhealthy, and the more sugar and preservatives a food has in it, the more likely I am to want to devour it. So I don’t buy junk food as a means of self-preservation.

Today, however, in some misguided attempt to believe I had a shred of willpower in my body, I decided to buy a package of Oreo cookies for the kids. Yes, that’s right, I did it for the kids. I did not buy them because I love all things sugar and have a weakness for chocolate cookies. Not at all.

This afternoon I pulled out the cookies and thought I would just eat a couple. Within a few minutes of opening the package I realized I had eaten five cookies. Five cookies! In like, three minutes. Holy Shit! Oreos are like crack for people who have never done crack, but I think this must be what it feels like to do crack.

Oh. My. God.

I could sit down and eat this whole damn bag of cookies. I started having thoughts of hiding them and not telling the kids I bought them so I could savor them and enjoy each delicious cookie myself. They can’t appreciate these cookies like I do, so really, if I share them, then I’m just wasting them. And I refuse to waste anything this delicious.

Wait…when did I become this crazy, cookie hoarder? No, this is not who I am! This is not who I want to be!

I really do wonder if the Oreo cookie makers put small amounts of a crack-like-substance in the cookie to make you go crazy for them the second they dissolve in your mouth. Or a substance that makes you lose reason as well as your sense of time, so you can eat one cookie after the other and not realize what you’ve just done or how much you’ve consumed.

In the end, after I’d shamefully eaten eight Oreos, I pulled my shit together and put them away. Not only did I put them away, but I wrapped them in a way that would prevent me from just reaching in the cupboard to grab one more. I made it so that it would take a herculean effort for me to extract a cookie from the packaging.

But I’m still thinking about those crack cookies.

I have a problem.

I am officially adding Oreo cookies to the list of items I’m breaking up with in 2015.

Wanda Says…Happy New Year World!

January 4, 2015January 4, 2015 / Wanda / 14 Comments

Happy New Year World!!!!!!!!!

I love starting the new year with good intentions. I love the idea that everyone gets a do over. A chance to make better choices, or form a plan that somehow allows you to improve your life in some way. So it’s fitting that my first post of 2015 will be about my New Year’s resolutions.

I know what you’re thinking. How trite. How B-O-R-I-N-G. So typical. So many people make resolutions and never keep them, myself included. But I love the act of evaluating my life and the events of the previous year to set my course for the future. I love the act of making a conscious choice to stop fucking shit up.

I think the reason so many people fail at their goals for the year is that they set their expectations too high. I am also guilty of this and I can recall with painful clarity the moments over the years when my resolution failures became inevitable. That moment every January 2nd when I said to hell with it and ate the cookie, cake, dessert, wine, pizza or other fried, delicious thing that officially broke the diet I started that morning. This year I endeavor to break the mold. This year, my resolutions will be completely attainable. Low hanging fruit, so to speak, but fruit, nonetheless.

1. This year I will start my diet…..again….right after I finish eating the Godiva chocolate basket my mother-in-law gave me for Christmas. It’s Godiva. I’m not sharing it with anyone. It’s mine. I’ll work on being thinner after that delicious goodness is gone. (Notice how I didn’t say I would lose weight? I just said I would start my diet again. See? Low hanging fruit).

2. This year I will do less laundry. Bryn is old enough to learn how to do her own laundry and it’s time she started pulling her weight around here. One less basket of laundry for me to wash and fold for someone else is one less week of procrastination a month. That’s huge progress for me. I can already tell it’s going to be a fabulous year!

This cat can sew better than I can.

3. This year I will learn how to sew. Bryn asked for a sewing machine for Christmas and her grandmother got her one. It’s a real sewing machine and I need to help her learn to use it. We will take a sewing class together so that I can learn alongside her and help her if she runs into trouble when she starts using her machine. This is a sacrifice on my part because I have absolutely no interest in sewing, whatsoever. But I look at it this way…….when the zombie apocalypse happens, people will need clothes when theirs get all nasty and torn with zombie warfare shit all over them, and as long as I know how to sew and make clothes, people will want to help keep me alive. It’s a survival skill.

But this is a more realistic outcome.

4. I will grow a real garden this spring and use the canning equipment my husband bought me two years ago that’s sat untouched in the garage. I’ve had a budding interest in gardening and canning for some time, and God only knows why. I can’t imagine a hobby that more clearly declares that I am officially a boring, old woman. It must be my Midwestern genes kicking in because no matter how hard I fight it, my instinct is to embrace the domestic goddess within me. My head says, “I just want to paint my nails, lose weight and go buy leather pants,” and my heart is all, “No, you need to grow vegetables in the dirt, can delicious, preservative-free food for your family and plan for your future!” (Sigh). I think the domestic goddess is winning, and last year I had some success growing tomatoes and zucchini in my container garden. The canning process still intimidates me, but again, it’s a survival skill. If I can learn to do this, I will know how to grow and preserve food when all the restaurants and grocery stores have been looted in the apocalypse and there is no food to be found.

5. I will drink more wine. Wine is good.

I stole this picture from Facebook.

6. I will attempt to curse less. Wait, what? No, scratch that. That won’t happen.

7. When my husband loads the dishwasher in a way that makes my OCD crazy, I vow that I will not rearrange everything the way that I want it. Unless he isn’t home. Then I will totally rearrange the dishes so they fit perfectly together they way the puzzle making dishwasher basket designers intended.

8. And lastly, this year I am officially breaking up with wheat, depression, family drama, Spanx, people who take themselves too seriously, and my bathroom scale. 🙂

Also, to those of you who follow my Wanda, I just want to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart. The past five months of blogging has been more rewarding and fun than I could have imagined. I have loved reading your blogs and learning about so many of your lives around the world. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season and a Happy New Year!

Wanda Says…Why my husband’s gaming privileges are about to be revoked.

December 21, 2014 / Wanda / 2 Comments

A couple of days after my last post, On the subject of video games and prison lingo, this conversation took place with Bryce about another video game.

Bryce: Mommy, will you watch me play this game? It’s pretty cool.

Me: Sure, I can watch for a few minutes.

Bryce: Let me show you the characters first.

He starts flipping through these pages of characters on the game. The graphics of this game are also cartoons, but I realized right away that it’s more of an adult cartoon style. At least the detailed pictures were. When the game is in play the characters all compress down into innocuous looking little people and they appear child-like. But when you peruse the actual game roster the characters are all sexy fantasy creatures…who are well endowed and wearing very little clothing. I saw picture after picture of female characters with their breasts hanging out and wearing small bikini style costumes to match their persona. I was shocked, but Bryce didn’t seem to notice how exposed these characters were and the conversation continued…

Me: I’m surprised daddy let you pick this game.

Bryce: Why? It’s fun.

He then shows me a picture of an exceptionally racy looking character and I almost choked on my tongue.

Me: Who is that character?

Bryce: She’s a Succubus.

Me: For fuck’s sake! (said quietly to myself so Bryce wouldn’t hear)

When I mentioned this little conversation to my husband, he had the decency to look embarrassed before he started laughing his ass off. And when I mentioned writing this post to him he said, “What’s the big deal? It’s a mythological creature……that could be painted on the hood of a Camaro.”

I rest my case.

On the subject of video games and prison lingo.

December 18, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 8 Comments

Last week Dan downloaded a new game to the ipad for Bryce. The graphics of the game are cartoons, but the game is still a bit scary because all the enemies are monsters, like vampire bats and werewolves.

This was the conversation I had with Dan about the game last week. Keep in mind that Bryce is only four years old, but because he has an older sister who loves video games, he’s more adept than most four year olds at playing them.

Dan: I got this new game for Bryce. At first you only had to shoot enemies with a bow and arrow, which didn’t strike me as being overly violent. But now you have to defeat your enemies with a dagger, and that just seems too violent.

Me: You think? He’s four, and he has to defeat enemies with a dagger? Is that the same game he asked me for help with the other day? He told me he was in a “creepy situation” with a game and needed help getting out of the level. I saw the vampire bats and told him to shut it off.”

(I want Dan and Bryce to have their own activities, you know, father/son stuff, so I don’t want to interfere. Although I am a bit concerned, I’m trying to trust Dan’s judgment).

Dan: Yeah, I’m not sure we’ll be keeping this game.

Two days later….

Dan: Bryce, tell mommy what you did to the werewolf.

Bryce: I shanked him with a shiv.

Me: (epic sigh)

Wanda Says…Blog awards, Rick Springfield, and other random stuff.

December 16, 2014 / Wanda / 7 Comments

Recently another great blogger, Weight2lose2013, nominated me for the One Lovely Blog Award. This is my second ‘New Blogger’ award since I started this blog four and a half months ago. I won’t lie, I’m pretty thrilled about it.

The One Lovely Blog Award nominations are chosen by fellow bloggers for those newer and up-and-coming bloggers. The goal is to help give recognition and also to help the new blogger to reach more viewers. It also recognizes blogs that are considered to be “lovely” by the fellow bloggers who choose them. This award recognizes bloggers who share their story or thoughts in a beautiful manner to connect with viewers and followers.

You think I’m lovely? Really? Even though I use the F-word a lot? Awww, that’s fantastic!

Prior to blogging, I’ve never won any awards. Not ever. Not even a perfect attendance award in elementary school. This was partly due to how shy I was as a kid, and I didn’t really outgrow that shyness until I was in high school. Even then, I never liked to be the center of attention so I learned to fly under the radar. I’ve always been social and enjoyed being included in group activities but I never really put myself out there to try and accomplish something I could be recognized for.

So having my silly, ridiculous little blog acknowledged in a positive manner by my peers in the blogging community feels pretty amazing. I never thought anyone would read it, so I am beyond flattered that any of you enjoy it enough to keep coming back and checking in on Wanda. I truly enjoy being a part of the WordPress community, and I want to thank Weight2lose2013 for the nomination and support. All of you should go check out his blog immediately!

Now let’s get to the rules…

In order to “accept” the award the nominated blogger must follow several guidelines:

Thank the person who nominated you for the award.
Add the One Lovely Blog logo to your post.
Share 7 facts/or things about yourself
Nominate 15 bloggers you admire and inform the nominees by commenting on their blogs

Here are seven random facts about me:

1. I often read to myself, out loud. I can’t help it. When I’m engrossed in a good book reading out loud to myself just happens, and when I try and suppress the urge I get frustrated and end up re-reading a paragraph several times trying to concentrate. I don’t like to read with other people in the room for this reason. Does anyone else have this problem?

2. I’ve had a white hot crush on Rick Springfield for about 30 years now, and I don’t see that changing, ever. Growing up, I really wanted to be Jesse’s Girl so Rick would love me too. (Sigh)

3. One of my biggest pet peeves is when people ask me if I’m wearing contacts. I have blue eyes, and five out of ten people will ask me point blank if I am wearing contact lenses. Here’s what irritates me about this…they don’t ask if I’m wearing colored contacts, just contacts. I do wear contacts because I have horrible vision, but they aren’t colored. Frequently, people just assume my eye color is enhanced with blue colored contacts, and when they ask it’s almost like they’re accusing me of something. It’s the knowing tone of voice they use, like they just out-smarted a used car salesman that annoys the shit out of me. I usually reply by saying, “Yes, I wear contacts because my vision is horrible, but how could you tell that just by looking at me?” My point is that people shouldn’t assume that because someone has an interesting feature that they’re fake in some way. And even if they are, why should you care?

4. Coffee is my favorite beverage. I worship coffee. I could drink it all day, especially when it’s cold and raining. I don’t like black coffee, though. I like my coffee like I like my ice cream…sweet and creamy. When I travel, I even pack my own sweetener (Stevia) and non-dairy creamer. So many people and hotels don’t have Stevia or the cream I like, so I never leave town without it.

5. I love books of all kinds and I read books from every genre. Historical fiction is my favorite, but paranormal romance is my secret, guilty pleasure. Sometimes, after reading something heavy and thought-provoking, I need a book that doesn’t make me think too hard. Something that just makes me laugh, takes me to the edge of my seat, and makes my heart race with the anticipation of the two main characters finally getting their shit together and realizing they belong to each other. Some of my favorite series include the Fever series, the Immortals After Dark series, the Black Dagger Brotherhood, and the Charley Davidson series. All of these series are sexy, smart, action-packed and hilarious.

6. I really do have a weird obsession with the zombie apocalypse. Last month my husband was cleaning out the garage and he knew to pile everything he wanted to get rid of in the driveway for me to look at first, just in case I wanted to save something for my zombie stash. He wanted to get rid of a Brita water filter tank and several new, replacement filters. I was like, “What if the zombie apocalypse comes and we need a way to filter water for drinking?” He calmly put the water tank and filters back in the garage, without saying a word. I think he appreciates the fact that I’m thinking ahead. 😉

7. Sometimes, I spontaneously start dancing around my house. Sometimes with music, most of the time without music. My dancing is usually motivated by doing something silly with my kids. I think I’m a great dancer. My kids think I’m ridiculous and my husband just thinks it’s funny.

Now for the blogger nominations! I don’t know fifteen new bloggers to nominate, so I will nominate the bloggers that I do know and believe you will enjoy as much as I do.

http://jurassicmom.com/

http://lindsaysmiles.wordpress.com/

http://sweetykannoth.wordpress.com/

http://redcarpetsquare.wordpress.com/

That’s it! Thanks again and I hope everyone has a fabulous week! 🙂