Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Do you know what happens if you sign up for Jazzercise, attend a few sessions, then stop going altogether?

Sure, there's the muscle atrophy and the weight gain la la la, but that pales in comparison to the fact that the Jazzercise people just keep on charging your credit card every month. Even if you haven't stepped foot in their smelly old gym for almost a year.

And because of this, your husband will badger you until it gets so that you can't even have a normal conversation anymore without the subject turning to Jazzercise:

Rimarama: "Top o' the morning to ye, P-Dawg! 'Tis my earnest hope that the new day finds you well-rested and in good spirits, yea, forsooth."

P-Dawg: "Did you cancel your Jazzercise membership yet?"

Rimarama: "I will do it on the morrow."

P-Dawg: "I've heard that before. How hard can it be to call them up and quit?"

Rimarama: "Tis a wretched chore, my lord. When first I endeavored to do the exercise of jazz, they gave unto me a scrap of parchment to render forth if a time came such that I was desirous to break free of the Jazzercing coil. But I LOST that slip of paper, P-Dawg, not two days forth unto the Jazzercising."

P-Dawg: "OK, so-"

Rimarama: "Plus, you have to show up in person during a regularly scheduled class, with your passport and firstborn! Also something about tap dancing and turning in an essay explaining why you are forsaking your cardiovascular health. It sounded worse than trying to get out of AOL, or even quitting the Firm!"

(Plus, you never know when the urge to don a unitard and shake your booty in the school gym will hit again.)

Well, last week I finally faced the music and worked up the nerve to go cancel. With the P-Dawg cheering me on, I pulled out of my driveway, drove across town, parked the Ramamobile, waltzed into the community center, and marched right up to the attendance ladies who were sitting at their little card table by the gym entrance, punching tickets and peddling their Jazzercise wares.

I was a woman on a mission, speeding bulletlike toward my target. I knew that if I wavered for even one second, the Jazzercise mafia would suck me in, convincing me to "just give it one more shot" and I'd end up inside that gym doing jazz hands to a Carly Simon song in my street clothes next to Velma of the velour pantsuit.

It was going to be of the utmost importance that I establish a no-nonsense "I will not take no for an answer" attitude if I was going to accomplish the dirty business at hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes! I need to cancel my membership. I recently moved and it's been really hard to attend class at this location. Also my kid kept freaking out in the daycare room but I could never make it to the evening class on time because my husband works late. But don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the class and it's very unfortunate that I can no longer attend but OK, see here's the deal, I lost the little slip of paper, you know, the thingy you're supposed to bring with you to cancel? They told me I needed to hold on to that and, well, I totally lost it, but you can't really blame me because I moved and then we were living out of a suitcase with my parents for like two months and I really hope it's not going to be a problem because-

"Just sign here."

"Oh! OK! Do you need to see my credit card?"

"No."

"Really? How about a drivers' license or state ID?"

"No, just the signature is fine."

"OK . . . I could write an essay explaining the reason for my cancellation! A brief synopsis, if you will."

"No, just the signature."

"Huh. I'm guessing you don't want to see me tap dance."

(silence)

"Okey-doke, then . . . (signs name with flourish.) Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"No problem. You could have just called."

Readers, I turned and walked out with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and placed directly back into my wallet.

Except . . . now the weather's turned cold and speedwalking is out of the question, I need a new means of maintaining my cardiovascular health. I'll be frank - the treadmill bores me to tears and I do have a tendency to lose my footing. And if you say, "You could always jump rope in the privacy of your living room," I'll mess you up like I messed up my pot roast.

No, what I could really use is a Wii Fit, and Magpie's got one to spare.

I need a Wii Fit because it:

• Won't subject the little J-dog to the horrors of the daycare room
• Won't auto-deduct from my bank account
• Could care less what time I show up for class
• Won't charge me for missed days
• Is way cooler and more up to date than Jazzercising
• And it sure as heck won't put me through the wringer if I ever decide to break up with it. (Which I totally never would.)

Oh! Would that I had one!

Where in the World is Rimarama

. . . and why is she neglecting her blog?

There is no compelling reason. We needed time apart, the blog and I. But my hiatus was actually more or less an accident that quickly morphed into a way of life.

It was a languid and delicious way of life, and I am a little loathe to leave it. I'm feeling the itch to write here again, but this time truly without guilt or obligation. It's the only way I can re-enter the fray.

After I finished my big project, I kept meaning to post, but found that I had misplaced my writing groove. Sitting down to write was like trying to start a letter to an old neglected friend, and I didn't know quite how to begin, what to share, what to leave out.

Then we (finally!) moved.

After unpacking, I obsessed a bit about furniture and decorating choices and when that got old, I just meandered about my kingdom in a happy daze, pausing every so often to fluff a pillow here, nab a wayward piece of lint there. Sometimes I would simply roll around on the sun room floor, purring and batting at dust mites.

I invested some time in taking care of myself, eating better, exercising. I lost seven pounds on We1ght Watcher$, which doesn't really sound like that much of a feat, but it's more than five percent of my body weight and makes a considerable dent in a pygmy frame.

I've been trying to lose ten pounds since after the V-meister was born and could never quite get there until I started counting those stupid points. I always thought I was eating fairly well (EggBeaters, anyone?), but what WW taught me is that I can pretty much never have bakery bread or seconds, even if we're just talking about a dadburn piece of boneless, skinless chicken breast that's cooked in olive oil spray. Also, I cannot haz cheezburger.

I hate WW and I love it. Sometimes I resent counting POINTS so much that it makes me want to run around in circles and punch a wall. I have a little POINTS angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and the two of them are waging a war right in front of my mouth.

But. There is this one pair of jeans that I just couldn't get rid of when purging my closet of Things I Will Never Wear Again In This Lifetime, even though I hadn't been able to zip them even halfway up in years. I hung on to these jeans as a kind of benchmark for what I knew had been a healthy and attractive weight for me, although I was beginning to lose hope that I could ever get there again. And now they fit me, like a glove.

I interviewed a few new pairs of jeans again in the Gap dressing room yesterday evening and while I don't yet have an opening for a pair of size zero Long and Leans, I'm happy to announce that I had to dismiss my old nemesis, Size Six Boot Cut Ankle Length, because they were too big.

I've had a lot of anxiety lately, too, I guess I should say. It has to do with moving here, my conflicting emotions about undeserved bounty, karma, the state of the nation, all that. I'm guessing it's also been triggered by the old North Wind and the information packet we got from the V-meister's school about pandemic/avian bird flu preparedness.

This is the sort of thing that can put me into a tailspin for days, cause me to pick my cuticles ragged, snap at my family in spite of myself, and arrange my books in their built in cases according to size and color.

But here is a little piece of information I'm not sure I've ever shared with you: I have a little voice in my head that dictates my blog posts to me! I can only write when she's around. I call her, "Rimarama," and, frankly, I don't know where the hell she's been.

But lately I've heard her trying to come through and I think she's saying that she feels like writing again. Even though she's getting kind of sick of the cotton candy pink header with its playfully depressing implications, the blog's general tone of insouciance, and also regrets the pseudonym she assigned her son. (She wants to start calling him the little J-Bomb instead).

She's writing this catchup post in hopes that the act of writing itself will engender inspiration.

If not, it's back to the sun room floor.

Live from the Village

Geez, the longer you stay away from blogging, the harder it is to return, eh? We're finally all settled in here at my parents' house, but I've found it difficult to get back into the blogging groove. I just don't have the computer time I used to, and my blogging alter ego (uh, Rimarama) has been uncharacteristically quiet here. It's like all she wants to do is eat popsicles, run through the sprinkler, and read Nancy Drew mysteries.

But the transition from hut to ancestral suburban three bedroom ranch has not been nearly as difficult as I'd expected. I don't want to jinx things, but so far, living here has been almost downright fun-ish. The kids cannot believe their luck at scoring a neverending sleepover, and I'm finding that it's true what they say about it taking a village to raise a child.

In the village, there is always someone around to talk with, lend a hand, help keep an eye on the kids. On the other hand, privacy is scarce and it can be more difficult to keep track of your offspring/keep your offspring on track here in the home of the bottomless sippy cup and never shrinking stash of Rolos doled out by my dad via the secret candy handoff technique.

However, the P-Dawg and I have been enjoying perks such as nightly walks together after J-dog and V-meister have gone to bed, as well as the occasional evening out on the town. The witching/dinner hour is not nearly as bad when you only have to cook every third night and someone else watches your kids while you do it. As an added bonus, my mom has been going in to get the J-dog when he wakes up at the crack of dawn, allowing me - notorious for my morning bee-otchiness - the luxury of an extra fifteen minutes of sleep and a cup of coffee before facing my fellow villagers.

Of course, there's no swearing or cable TV in the village, and you can't just walk around the house in your underwear, if that's the sort of thing you are inclined to do. And although there is high speed internet, trying to post a blog entry feels a lot like web surfing on company time back in the cubicle days, always with the cursor hovering above the minimize key and the heart racing in fear of being discovered.

But with each day that is neurotically crossed off the calendar, I have increased confidence that we will make it to October and our new house intact. Although we might have to sacrifice some of our baby teeth.

A Final Dispatch from the Hut

This might be my last dispatch from the hut. We are moving out next week and will be staying at my parents' house until our new place is available in October.

The P-Dawg is not the least bit nervous about the prospect of living with his in-laws for a month and a half (although they will be on vacation for three weeks of that time), viewing it as an adventure and opportunity to take advantage of free babysitting. Optimism is the P-Dawg's middle name and it serves him well.

I'm a bit more skeptical about the specific machinations necessary for peaceful cohabitation of three generations under one roof. I'm prepared to pull my weight in terms of household responsibilities and all that, but the other day my mom mentioned that I might want to bring my crockpot, as well as a few of my "favorite pans," and I'll be honest, this struck mortal fear into my heart.

It's not that I don't know how to cook, exactly, it's just . . . the expectations. Before the P-Dawg and I got married, my dear late grandmother actually pulled him aside and said, "I so sorry she no cook! We try to teach, but she no cook." It's like a test: after almost eight years of marriage, has she or has she not learned how to cook already?

Anyway, aside from waxing nostalgic and going through a daily litany of "lasts" ("P-Dawg, do you realize this is the last Thursday we will ever spend in the hut? The last time we'll ever grill out in this yard? The last new ketchup container I will place in this refrigerator? By the time this milk expires, we will be gone"), I have done little in the realm of preparing for the big move. Although I did shower this morning with a morsel of soap no bigger than my pinkie finger because I am hell bent on making it the last piece of soap I will ever lather up with in the hut.

Now that we've come down to the wire, many possessions previously regarded as indispensable are being tossed willy-nilly into a garbage bag as I make my rounds from room to room. You didn't read it here, but it's possible that some articles of the P-Dawg's clothing might get "lost in the move." As they say.

Also, much as it pained me, I had to dispose of this *begin air quotes* craft *end air quotes* the V-meister made at day camp this week:


What, if I may ask, is your general rule of thumb when deciding whether a piece of your progeny's artwork will receive a coveted spot in the underbed Rubbermaid container or serve as landfill instead?

It seems that I'm always saying to the V-meister, "Hmmmm . . . I don't know what happened to that picture/rock/lint-studded piece of dried out play-doh!" What's more, I feel only the slightest twinge of guilt as these words leave my lips, just thankful that I haven't been caught with my hand in the garbage can yet.

My presence will be scarce in blogland for the next few weeks as we move out of the hut (*sniff*) and get settled in at my parents' place. And because this blog is TOP SECRET as far as my extended family is concerned, when I do resume posting, it will be by flashlight under the covers in my old bedroom. And then only if I've completed my chores.

See you on the other side!

Some Robots are Nicer Than Others

Yesterday I realized the hut wasn't going to pack itself or do any other moving related chores, so I set to work on the dreaded task of getting public utilities set up to transfer.

It was a lot like navigating a laboratory maze designed by Professor Bunsen Honeydew and monitored by a stoned Beaker: one dead end after another and they keep moving the cheese around. Adding insult to injury, just when the cheese is within reach, you get drop-kicked back to the main options phone menu for following the incorrect path.

When I was on hold with the gas company, a deceptively friendly robot talked me into letting the next available customer service rep call back instead of continuing to hold.

I only agreed out of hunger, weakness, and disorientation. And just when I was beginning to suspect that I'd been stood up by a computer, the phone rang.

It was the robot, calling back.

He put me on hold.

But later, I was talking to another robot at the cable company who was so convincing that I momentarily forgot who I was dealing with and tried to crack a joke.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't know how to interpret that sentence."

He also kept apologizing whenever it was taking him too long to "pull my information up on his computer," even making very convincing typing noises in between his nervous little outbursts.

Whenever I remembered that I was talking to a robot, I'd get really pissed off at the cable company, playing me for such a fool. Did they think that a few random sound effects would be enough to assuage the indignity of conducting a fifteen minute conversation with an inanimate object?

But then I'd picture the robot tapping away at his little keyboard, a miniature zen garden set up under the fluorescent lights of his cube, framed pictures of the wife and kids perched on the credenza, and I just couldn't hate him.

By the end of our chat, I felt like we had really bonded, so I told him about the 'bot over at the gas company who had stood me up.

He said he'd go over there on his lunch break and kick his ass.

You Can't Take It With You

Last night I was lying in bed, sucking on a melatonin tablet and waxing nostalgic about the hut.

I thought, "I will only stare at these cranberry red walls before falling asleep here fifty more times."

And I got a little panicky. Because I haven't started packing, or even contracted a mover.

And because I suspect that leaving here, we'll leave some intangible part of our fledgling family behind, never to be recreated in quite the same way again.

The hut is where we brought the newborn V-meister, ensconced in her plastic Graco cocoon, set her down in the middle of the living room rug, looked at each other and said, "Ooooooooookaaaay. Now what?" (Moments later, she started meowling, I tried unsuccessfully to nurse her, she projectile vomited, I cried on and off for a year, and our question was roundly answered.)

Two years later, I elected to do it all over again, except this time it wasn't so much a question of wondering what do to with the newborn stranger as trying to figure out a way to keep him fed, clothed, and happy with a two-year-old, potty training V-meister permanently attached to my lower extremities.

Good times!

Darkish times, too. Like in the evenings of nascent motherhood when, the sun having regretfully set, I'd find my pudgy, leaking, yoga pants clad self sitting on the stinky brown couch and trying to nurse yet again, wondering why on earth I thought I could raise a human being, convinced that I had, in fact, known happiness, but it was over now.

Still, we lived a whole chapter of our lives here that we'll never be able to revisit. And while there's no going back in time regardless of one's environs, leaving here is a molting of sorts, like losing forever a piece of what we were during that bittersweet glimmer.

Strange, when I think about how wretched I felt during the PPD days and swore then that the world was closing in on me, I also recall eating bowls of Ben and Jerry's with a baby tucked safely between the P-Dawg and me on our cheap brown Sofa Express couch, watching the Colbert Report, and laughing in spite of myself.

And while I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't want to relive that time in its entirety, neither do I want to leave it here for good.


The Newborn Meister and I


V-Meister and P-Dawg


V-Meister, Hitting the Sauce


Little J's Homecoming


J-Dog, Six Weeks

House Pictures!

We had the new house inspected yesterday and I took the ole' camera along . . .


Front


Patio/Backyard


A Babbling Brook


Kitchen


Family Room


Sun Room


Master bedroom with P-Dawg


Basement "Wine Cellar"

Not pictured: living room/dining room with pink carpeting to be replaced ASAP, master bath with fugly floral wallpaper, and kidz bedrooms.

I won't believe it's really my home until all of our stuff is finally inside it and I'm chillin' in the sun room with my laptop and a glass of red.

Of course, all of our stuff will fill about one room. But no matter! Am looking forward to procurement of more stuff.

Next mission, if I choose to accept it, and I do: obsessive surfing of furniture and home decor websites.

I am a very happy girl.

Hut for Sale; Desperate Hutwife Not Included

Oh right, my blog!

I've been bizzy.

Last weekend was a veritable Lithuaniapalooza. What that means is cultural festivities out the wazoo in commemoration of the motherland's 90th year of independence.

How is it possible that Lithuania could be celebrating ninety years of independence, you ask, when I just told you last week she only busted out from behind the Iron Curtain in 1991?

Lithuania has two independence days - February 16th is the first one, when we told the czar to bite us back in 1918, and March 11th, 1991 is when we shed the dread communist mantle once and for all.

The upside of being relentlessly bullied by evil empires is two separate excuses to party like it's 1999. But we like to place the emphasis on our first independence day because it sends a clear message that sez, "Suck it, commies! Let's pretend the last fifty or so years never happened."

So I spent most of the weekend rehearsing for and participating in the Lithuanianpalooza, where my extreme choir sang and even the little V-meister recited a poem and sang a song along with her little pre-school friends. The rest of the time during the program, she looked like this:



Next:

With the real estate market in our area totally tanking, the P-Dawg and I decided now would be the ideal time to put our hut up for sale, and so I spent most of Monday running around like a madwoman, shoving random clutter, clothing, toys, and the odd child under beds and into closets in preparation for our listing agent's visit.

So paranoid was I about the state of our lair, that I was practically tripping over myself to offer our agent my take on things that could be improved before we put the house on the market. Because, above all, I aim to please.

As we were doing our walk-thru, I would bound in front of the pack (the pack being the agent, the P-Dawg, the V-meister, and the J-Dog) to enter the room in question before anyone else did so that I could properly lament the sorry state of affairs and make totally unbidden and impossible promises like, "I was thinking we could just knock this wall out, you know, to make the room look bigger? And a new paint job, of course, and curtains, and why don't I just box up all the kids' toys and send them back to China right now!?"

I was pathetic. But the agent made only minor suggestions for bathroom and kitchen updates and, of course, advised us to get rid of all the junk I had thrown in the basement and shoved under beds and into closets in my foolhardy attempt to foil her.

Also of note:

The V-meister has yet another ear infection. We made the much dreaded trip to the pediatrician's office this morning. The V-meister quite enjoys the Ped's office, but it frankly makes me rather sick.

I like to go in armed with anti-bacterial wipes to disinfect any and all surfaces we may potentially come into contact with and also hover around the kids like a hummingbird on crack to ensure that nobody gets any ideas about licking the wall (J-dog!) or, you know, touching anything. By the time we get home, I'm totally wiped out, twitchy, and convinced that I picked up the flesh eating bacteria.

This ear infection, however, seems a lot less dastardly than the Great Ear Infection of 2007, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it stays that way.

And now I'm off to begin polishing the floors with my toothbrush.