Oh, Chimpy, Where Have Your Dirty Paws Been?

Natalie has a visitor for the long weekend-- her preschool's classroom mascot, Chimpy. Chimpy is a stuffed animal monkey. He is dirty, worn out, and his stuffing is so old he cannot sit up on his own. Natalie is supposed to dictate to me in a journal what she did with Chimpy over the weekend, and include a drawing and perhaps some pictures.

When Natalie showed Chimpy to her "Meme", the WASP in my mom deemed both Chimpy and his toothbrush, "Dirty...can I at least wash the toothbrush? And you are not sleeping with that thing, either, Natalie." So far, no welcome wagon for poor Chimpy.

The first evening, I was trying to get to sleep but had to come up with cool shit to do with this monkey. I didn't want this to be the lame visit of the class. We had been to a pool party that afternoon, and we were going to a birthday party and a cookout over the weekend, so at least we had places to drag this filthy monkey. I thought of the pictures I would be taking of Chimpy and started to giggle as I nudged Phill.

"Hey, you know what would be EPIC? If I posed Chimpy inappropriately for fun. You know, those pics wouldn't go in the journal, but I would love to pose him at a bar with a cocktail or something...HA, orrr surround him with a batch of Nat's stuffed animals, having an orgy! How hilarious would that be?!"

Phill replied, "Um, no. You are not going to do that. It is a children's monkey and that's wicked immature to do."

Whatever. His point may have been made better if he wasn't watching "Futurama" at the time.

"What if I pose him in Nat's doll bathtub, with rubber ducks over his little monkey private parts?"

"NO. Good night."

The next day, Nat and I were headed to her classmate's birthday party. It was a princess-themed party, complete with a "real princess" and pizza/tea party. The hostess of the party was a hilarious mom who served wine for the grown-ups, a birthday party first for me. It was officially the best party I had been to.

I dressed up Chimpy in a Build-a-Bear princess gown and had Nat take a few pictures holding a drag queen'ed up stuffed monkey at the party. And that was totally before the Reisling!

Once I had a glass of wine in my hand, I decided to feel out a couple of the other moms about Chimpy. Was I the only one who had childish thoughts about posing Chimpy in compromising photos? I decided to dip a toe in the water and mentioned to a couple of the moms that I would love to pose Chimpy with a banana daquiri, just for fun. One mom, while very friendly, is a little on the conservative side and more reserved in conversation. However, she told me the story of how she ended up at an Irish pub with some friends who posed Chimpy with a beer! HOLY SHIT! If the quietest mom in the class got Chimpy fake-drunk, what were the other moms doing?!

The other mom laughed at the story and told a story of her own about a stuffed animal in her family that had been posed in naughty positions with a Barbie. YAY! I'm not a total weirdo, this is just what moms do to let off steam over things like 26-year old stuffed animal houseguests that smell musty!

At the cookout the next day, I totally took a picture of Chimpy huddled up to my husband's Smirnoff Ice. That one is not making it into the journal. I also took a picture of Chimpy in Natalie's toy bathtub, complete with rubber ducks. That one just might make it...

Should This Horse be Buckling at the Knees Like This? Or, Why I am Waiting on Surgery.

Well, it's Monday...and I have made some big decisions about not making any decisions.

I have thought long and hard all weekend. I would love to snap my fingers and be thin. So far, modern technology has only gotten as far as weight loss surgery. After a particularly nasty hour of a bootcamp class that has still left me unable to walk without a deranged limp, I thought this was going to be my only resort in order to get the results I want.

I weighed surgery against continued diet and exercise. Surgery, at first blush, always looks like the more desirable choice. It's faster. It may not be easier at first, but it seems to me it is easier than attending another "Please Lord, just let me die here on this smelly mat" class.

Before talking to anyone, I thought about my weight loss goals and what I wanted to do once the weight was gone. My answers included running a 5k and, maybe eventually, a 10k. I envy my athlete friends who can run 8 miles, 11 miles, even half and full marathons with regularity. I'd love to try a rock climbing wall. I'd like to try hiking...possibly with a little camping thrown in there, but let's not go crazy. Also, my friend Ashley keeps bugging me to get under 250 pounds so we can go horseback riding together. Actually, I am not even sure about that either, but it would be nice to say, "Um...are you out of your fucking mind?" without my main reason being not wanting to take down a majestic animal with all of my heft.

None of these goals really mesh with what I thought was my original goal, which was, "To be wicked skinny and hot and to never be called a fat bitch again!"

It is weird, but as time goes on at the gym, I realize that while I am excited about fitting into jeans that were once too tight, I take way more pleasure in harassing people by asking them to feel whatever new muscle emerged that week. This week, it's a bit of firmness above my elbow at the back of my arms. My arms are a source of hatred for me, and I am very proud of making people squeeze what is emerging just below the layers of fat. Before that, it was my biceps. Before that, my ass and thighs. Basically, if you are in my inner circle, I am going to make you touch me inappropriately to show off my new GLUTES!!!

I love the accomplishments I have made, however marginal. In January, I almost died after 1 minute and 30 seconds on the elliptical machine. Now, I almost die after 45 minutes. My goal is to almost die after an hour. As I lift more weight, try new machines, and work on new movements, I gain a very slight amount of confidence. It's teeny, but it is there, growing slowly. I won't get that kind of satisfaction from surgery.

I told my trainer this today, and I said that I couldn't quite place it, but it seems like surgery would be kind of an empty win for me, personally. I have a few friends who have had the surgery and they look amazing. Would I give anything to be that skinny that fast? Absolutely, I am not kidding myself here. But would it jive with the kind of skinny gal I am striving to be? The athletic one who can run miles, climb giant things, and not tranquilize horses using only the power of my fat ass? Not really...

My husband, Phill, can see the pros and cons of each side of my decision. He is supportive of whatever I choose to do, but says I can do all this after surgery, too. It would be like pushing the starting line a little closer to the finish line. It makes sense. My trainer calls it "cheating". From his view, it also makes sense.

So I have made some sort of compromise in my head: I am already paying for the training sessions, and the recovery time would eat into that. I might have to start over in some respects, while my body recuperates. I might be one of the lucky ones with nasty side effects that affect how I train. So, I have decided to finish the year of training before making any big decisions. If I work really hard and really pay attention to what I am eating, and still see no results, then next year it will be time to move on to more drastic steps.

Also, I read that after 10 years, most people gain weight back after surgery. I know I will be one of those people. Because while I will only be able to eat a certain amount of food, and certain kinds, believe me, one emotional upset and I will try to shove in whatever fits down there. Until I gain confidence and self-esteem through accomplishments that matter to me, and until I learn better responses to being upset, no amount of surgery is going to permanently fix me.

It is how I got here in the first place. Paxil was going to be the easy way out of my anxiety attacks, and instead I ended up 130 pounds heavier...and still panicking after I went off it. Rather than take another fast fix, I need to slow down and really work on the things that are standing in my way...so they won't stand in my way for the rest of my life.

...And then I can get back on the horse.

If You are the Fattest Person in the Room, That's a Red Flag...

For those of you who don't regularly follow my whiny yet amusing tales from the gym on Facebook, I joined a gym back in January and have had a series of highs and lows from trying to lose that last stubborn...um...150 pounds.

I enrolled in personal training sessions with my friend Ashley, and THOUGHT that they were working, what with a 16 pound weight loss, plus feeling firmer in places that used to only be flabby. So, when my trainer told me and Ashley he wanted us to go to the bootcamp being held in a few days at the gym, I was reluctant (um, hello, the NAME says it all, yes?) but decided I would give it a try. Ashley had school that day. Lucky bitch.

On Bootcamp Day, I showed up to the gym and watched skinny person after skinny person file into the room. Uh-oh. Surely I am not the only fat person doing this shit, right? I mean, why would my trainer tell me to do this if it wasn't fat-people-friendly? Where's my fellow twenty-something snarky fatties I can roll my eyes with ? We can make a nice corner in the back! At this point I was still holding out optimism...until I ended up on a mat alone. In the front.

As more people filed in, I tried to assess exactly how far behind I was going to fall in this class. Older women strolled in, and I thought, "HEY, maybe it'll be me and the old ladies! Surely they would break a hip before me, yes?"

Another older man walked in, and my first thought was, "Ahoy matey!" He was wearing denim shorts (DENIM! HOW does one move in DENIM? I am not even confident about my choice in UNDERWEAR for this class!), a tee-shirt, and sneakers. While the shorts were an unorthodox choice, the fact that it was accessorized by a bungee cord around his ass/groin was what really had me. I decided to silently name him Captain Bungee Pants. It was my only giggle of the hour!

Once the class got started I knew I was in trouble. After about ten minutes of grueling shit I can't even recall (I guess you need adequate oxygen to store memories.), I MIGHT have completely lost my shit, told the main trainer I was walking out, and then I MIGHT have stood up from my mat and spun around to look at my trainer and said, "This is bullshit and you know it. You KNOW I can't do this. Are you kidding me?"  And then I might have cried. Maybe. For a minute. Or two.

I swiped at my eyes frantically as they told me...I don't know, I was too busy trying to breathe. Something nice with a "rah rah, you can do it!" theme. I took a couple (hundred, hyperventilating) breaths, and continued. I often joke that I don't care if I die during workout sessions like these, because then I will not have to return. This was the first time it was a serious thought. At least if I collapsed like a fat asshole on the little rubber mat, I would never have to do this shit again. I wouldn't have to worry about being fat. A ten-year battle with obesity would be over. I would not win, but I would not have to fight anymore, which is still a victory for me. The Charlie Sheen school of WINNING!

I am pretty sure the only thing that kept me going was the little pep talks from my trainer. At least, I vaguely remember hearing him saying encouraging things and then me trying harder. But I am also prrrretty sure I blacked out a couple times, so maybe it was the voice of God.

As I looked around, I saw my Golden Girls holding their own way better than I ever could. SHIT! I am the SOPHIA in a room full of BLANCHES!!!! An obese, crazy-story-telling, meatball-loving SOPHIA!

Since I was alternately trying to breathe and trying not to cry, I never noticed how Captain Bungee Pants fared. It's probably best for my self-esteem that I never know.

When the class was done, I scooted out as fast as I could as I told myself over and over, "You can cry when you get in the car...you are not crying here. AGAIN!"

I spent the following three hours crying, thinking, fuming, crying, thinking, spacing out, and crying.

Which is when I decided that come Monday, it couldn't hurt to call my insurance company to see if they cover weight loss surgery. And then, if they do, call the doctor to get more information. If I don't care about dying during my 80 bajillionth squat, I might care even less about dying from a surgery that will help me to lose enough weight so that I don't have to not care about squat-induced death in the first place! Yes, it is a deranged line of thinking. I might still be running on a crappy, hyperventilated oxygen supply.

We'll see on Monday.

Get Your MoJo on at Momsandjobs.com!

I recently bumped into my college friend Felicia at a loud and crazy children's indoor playground. Amidst kids screaming (and possibly bleeding, but if they weren't our kids, who cares?), we caught up on what's been going on in our lives. Since my reply was a sweeping gesture of my kid hanging from my shoulders and other kids crashing into each other while telling her, "Uh, this!", her answer was way cooler...

Felicia works as the Operations Supervisor at Moms and Jobs, Inc. (MoJo). The company is a social venture that provides mothers living below the poverty line with jobs in the LogoWear industry. In addition to higher than average wages, MoJo provides free daycare for moms. Daycare costs are ridiculous, and it often costs more to send children to daycare than the paycheck a mom earns while their kids are in daycare. Because of this, single moms are a large part of the demographic of people living below the poverty line.

By purchasing an item (or several!) at momsandjobs.com/shop , you help to ensure higher wages for single mothers and the continuation of an amazing employment project.

The MoJo Infinity Scarf is gorgeous, as well as fashion-forward. The infinity scarf has become one of the hottest accessories, and purchasing this scarf will keep you both on-trend AND socially concious.

The MoJo's Charm for a Cure is an elegant hand-stamped necklace that is assembled locally by MoJo moms right in Lowell, MA. The purchase of this necklace helps raise money for ovarian cancer research.

Please help support my friend Felicia, who not only has a degree but a LOT of skills, by lending your support to an organization that is helping to pave a new life for hard-working moms across the country!

"Princess" of the Cat People

While I enjoy making fun of living with my parents, occasionally I like to look outside of my immediate surroundings to find new and interesting targets for my ridicule. This is where my neighbors come in...

When Phill and I lived in our apartment, there was never a lack of entertainment provided by our neighbors. For example, "The Griswolds", as we called them, decided to go all out for the apartment's complex-wide Christmas Lights competition. 30,000 lights and numerous illuminated statues later, we could barely sleep at night from the glow. We were never so glad to see them move away. Especially when they used the flatbed trailer usually reserved for their ski-doos to tow away their sofa...while sitting on it.

Life in a house in a residential neighborhood does not often afford us the luxury of observing the best of mental illness at work. If anything, WE are that house. My dad has made his own front yard fencing using warped 2x4s and too much enthusiasm. My daughter decorated our front lawn with plastic flamingoes and stone owl statues, safely encased in the pigpen my dad inadvertantly made when he erected what I call "Fisher Price Little People Barnyard Fencing".

Imagine my delight when, as the months go on, it turns out we may not be the craziest people on the street. My next door neighbors have two cats and countless chickens. We have been following "The Chicken and Cat Saga" religiously for over a year now. You'd think the chickens would be more interesting than the cats...but the chickens don't run on LEASHES on a ZIP LINE in the backyard.

I will never forget the first time I was hanging out in my backyard when I kept hearing a strange "ziiiippp" noise. As I walked around to investigate, I noticed a black cat going batshit crazy back and forth across the neighbor's lawn. Occasionally, the cats get a break from the zip line to be walked around the neighborhood on their leashes. If we are outside, the neighbor brings the moody animals over to "say hi". However, saying hi for the cats is hissing and clawing, which is especially disconcerting when they are dressed for Halloween in angel costumes.

I assumed the family on the other side of us was normal. Big family, teenagers, their friends, etc.etc. The only thing that bugged me was their yappy dog and the equally yappy mother who would call the dog in at all hours of the night. If Phill and I slept with our bedroom windows open, we could hear, "PRINCESSSSS, PRIIIIIIINNNNNCESSSSSS!!" over and over. I hated Princess. Princess NEVER came when she was called. But at least the dog wasn't barking when it was off running around the neighborhood unsupervised despite our city's leash law.

This nightly "Screaming for the Dog" ritual has almost become just another nighttime noise to me, like crickets or cars passing gently down the street. "PRINCESS! PRINCESS!" I can almost ignore it now...but not quite.

Then, last week we uncovered a bombshell. My mother was outside when the cats on leashes came by to "say hi" with their owner. They got to talking about the animals in the area, and our neighbor mentioned the other neighbor's cat, "PRINCESS"!

Holy shit, do you know what this means?! Our neighbors have been trying IN VAIN for over 18 months to call in their cat at night.

Princess has her owners wrapped around her finger (paw?), because while the yappy dog is apparently stuck at home sleeping all night, this cat is roaming the streets while the owners bellow her name for hours each night for months...while expecting different results every time!

It's going to be another long summer...