Last Friday, we took our niece on her first "sleep-over" vacation to Florida. She slept. I didn't.
Friday night, feeling a bit homesick, she decided she really, really needed to crawl into bed with Tim and myself. No problem. It was one of those extra large, California King-sized beds. There are mansions with less square footage than this thing. In fact, you need to send out a search party to see if anyone else is even in the bed with you. Which is why I'm still trying to figure out how one little seven year old could make it feel like I was trying to sleep on a postage stamp.
About two hours after we fell asleep, I had that dream. You know, the one where you are falling? Except it wasn't a dream. Her highness had somehow maneuvered me right to the edge of the mattress where I was precariously hanging on for dear life.
Rappelling the twelve feet down to the floor (oh, did I mention that the actual double-thick mattress is on top of a platform bed that you need a pole-vault and a good, strong tailwind to get up on?) I debated leaving her there and taking the middle position, but I was afraid she would continue to roll in that direction and I really didn't want to have to explain to her parents why their child looked like flat Stanley when I returned her.
I very gingerly leaned over and nudged her toward the middle. She hunkered down and snored louder. So much for plan A. I gently put one hand under her shoulder and one under her legs and rolled her over. She rolled right back. And took my pillow. There went plan B. On to plan C: I outweighed her by about six tons, and was going to have to use that to my advantage.
Clambering up onto the one-inch mattress border that she had so generously left for me, all the while wishing I had taken mountain climbing in PE instead of pistol, I simultaneously rolled her and slid in and over as far as I could. Victory! I could now lay claim to a full six inches of mattress real estate. I was ecstatic.
The only downside was that I had to stay on my back and brace myself against the bed frame so that she couldn't reclaim her space. Oh yeah. That was comfortable. Suddenly, the webbed lounge chairs out at the pool were beginning to look like a little bit of heaven.
By some miracle though, I was finally able to fall asleep again only to be woken up an hour or so later by a bad dream--hers. Yep. Nothing gets your heart pounding faster than being pulled out of a sound sleep by someone yelling in your ear, "I didn't do it!" while thrashing around like a really big, really annoyed fish in a very small net. If they ever need a back-up for the paddles on the crash cart at the local ER, I've got just the thing.
After we soothed her and got our heart rates down to two hundred beats per minute, I settled down again to find I had lost half of the space I had fought so valiantly for. Oh well. Sheer exhaustion allowed me to drift off to sleep (you have to pick your battles, I guess), but like clockwork, I awoke from yet a third dream (this one was mine. Score: me=2, my niece=1). In this one, I was Gretel and the witch had successfully coaxed me into climbing in the oven to check if it was on.
I awoke to find a fifty pound plus human heating pad pressed up against my back. Goody. Just what I needed. Something to ward off the cold, Florida night. Oh, and I was once again reduced to hanging off the edge of "our" side.
Resolving myself to the situation up top, I picked myself up out of the puddle of sweat I was lying in and slid down to give the bottom of the bed a try. I might have to deal with feet in my face, but the ceiling fan was positioned directly above the bottom of the bed, so the trade-off was worth it. Or so I thought.
Turns out those ceiling fans actually work. Who knew? Now, instead of roasting to death, I was freezing to death, and guess who was rolled up in the sheet, snug as a bug in a rug?
I decided I wasn't meant to sleep. Oh well, there was always Saturday night. Except that her loose tooth fell out and she was so excited by the prospect of the tooth fairy visiting that she didn't want to go to sleep on Saturday.
Somehow, Tim managed to sucker me into tooth fairy duty by claiming he had nothing smaller than a twenty. If I had known that would be the price of just one nights sleep, I would have let him wear the dress and wings and added another twenty of my own (actually, if there really had been a dress and wings, I would have been willing to chip in two twenties.).
10 pm rolled around, but there was no sign of the sandman. 11 pm came and went. Not one grain of sand in our lovely little niece's eyes, but the sandman sure had knocked Tim over the head with one of his larger bags. At this point, I was considering either spiking a Shirley Temple with Valium for our niece, or a large coffee with No-Doze for me.
By 11:30, she no longer seemed quite so lovely, and I was contemplating just handing her a fifty and telling her to put the tooth under her pillow when she got home and the fairy would match it.
Finally, when I checked somewhere near midnight, her head was down. Moving with a stealth that would put 007 to shame, I crept over to where she lay sleeping, reaching ever so cautiously for her pillow and...her head popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
"What're you doing?" she demanded suspiciously.
"Er. Um. Jut checking to make sure you put the tooth under your pillow. Wouldn't want the tooth fairy to have to pass by. And speaking of the tooth fairy, you know she won't come as long as you are awake." Smooth. Nice save. I patted myself on the back as I crept away.
At 12:30, I slipped back again, sure that she just had to be asleep. Personally, at that point, I could have slept hanging on the side of the bed. Heck, I could have slept dangling on a single thread, suspended over shark infested waters.
Once more, I reached for her pillow, and, just as my hand closed around the tooth...her eyes popped open. "What're you doing?" she demanded again.
Uh oh. I had used up my one and only excuse and my sleep deprived brain wasn't coming up with anything else.
"Er. Um. Uh. Hmm. Something, something, just checking," I mumbled desperately. "Gotta go."
Propping my eyelids open and swearing to myself that the next time, Time was so wearing the dress and wings, I didn't care what it cost, I waited another half hour.
This time, I whispered her name first. Then, I bumped the bed. Finally, I jiggled her pillow. She was, at last, asleep. Fighting not to collapse in a heap next to her, tooth in hand, I made the exchange and stumbled off to catch a few winks myself.
The next morning, she was up and at 'em, calling her parents to tell them that the tooth fairy had found her even in Florida. "But," I overheard her say, "it was the strangest thing. Annie was just obsessed with my pillow!"
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Taking it to the Next Level
What is it with exercise people and their obsession with taking things to the next level? Recently, my trainer bumped things up to the "next level" for about the tenth time. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out what was so wrong with the first level.
Was it not enough for her that I regularly collapsed on the floor in a heap after each and every set of fifteen reps, gasping for air like a fish out of water? Wasn't she happy that I couldn't climb the stairs for a week after each session without the aid of at least three people, a lever and a pulley? Didn't she feel job satisfaction when such physically demanding tasks as, oh, it don't know, blinking and breathing became painful enough to make me seriously contemplate not?
What gave her the idea I was ready for the next level? How exactly did that thought process go?
Okay, three sets of fifteen didn't literally kill her, so let's go for five sets of twenty. Hmmm. Still able to hang on to consciousness by a thread, so let's kick it up to the next level and do eight sets of one hundred. Holding one thousand pound weights. In each hand. And to rest in between each set, she can drop it down a level and do ten sets of twenty other exercises from the I'd-rather-be-getting-a-root-canal-without-Novocain list.
I used to dread the mornings she showed up with a device called a Bosu, that I'm sure they invented during the Spanish Inquisition (basically, it is one of those big exercise balls cut in half and mounted on a plastic frame).
Like the ground wasn't hurtling toward my face fast enough with a regular, old-fashioned push-up, I now had the added challenge of trying to balance on a round, springy object without crash-landing my way to a nose reconstruction.
"Go deeper," she would urge. "Keep those hips up."
Yeah, like either one of those things were actually possible. Well, on second thought, maybe the deeper was possible, as long as I didn't have to push back up, but somehow I got the impression that wasn't what she meant.
Before I could fully recover from the upper body work though (in other words, three days bed rest), we would move on to the legs.
"Okay, you're going to do squats with one leg on the Bosu, then jump over it, landing in a squat with the other leg on the Bosu."
I'm going to do what???!!! Evidently, she had mistaken me for a frog. I barely have enough strength and coordination to manage a normal squat on solid ground, let alone squatting, hopping, and changing legs.
If I'd had so much as an ounce of strength left after the ten sets of twenty (or was it twenty sets of ten? I don't know because I lost count somewhere around two), I would have seriously considered finding an ice pick and creating a new exercise for my biceps involving the Bosu and a sharp, downward movement, then kicked it to the curb with my powerful glutes.
I tried in vain to convince my trainer that just because I no longer felt like blacking out or throwing up half-way through our sessions didn't mean I was ready for this next level. I was happy where I was, really. I didn't need to ever again wear a bathing suit that didn't have a stomach panel and skirt. And who needed sleeveless tops anyway? Air conditioning had been invented so that we would be comfortable wearing long-sleeve shirts in ninety-five degree temperatures.
She didn't buy it, and we moved on to the dreaded "next level".
I have now gone from being a frog to a kangaroo, hopping madly back and forth across my backyard, leaping and springing into the air, like I'm trying out for either the NBA or Olympic pole-vaulting team (without the pole).
"Higher," she tells me. "4001, 4002..."
Half the time she doesn't even count out loud anymore though because I think she's afraid if I hear that I'm only on ten and I have to get to 8000, I might do something drastic like hop over to the neighbor's yard and seek sanctuary.
Lunges off a Bosu? That's for sissies. The four-foot high steps down to the patio are a much better place to really work the quads. And hey, we've gone waaaay beyond using those wimpy stairs in the house for step-ups too. Now the eight-foot wall out back is just right for that treat. Oh, and let's add a karate kick and a lunge for good measure, while doing presses with two thousand pound weights, blindfolded and backwards.
I'm beginning to get nostalgic for the good old days when she would hand me a two pound weight and worry that I was going to give myself a concussion trying to lift it with both hands over my head.
The worst part though about this next level stuff is that nowadays if I survive the full hour (and it is pretty much touch and go), I can't even reward myself with coffee and chocolate. I head for the nearest bottle of water and have to debate whether I want to drink it or just pour it over my head. It's at least an hour before I can even contemplate the thought of anything else, and by then, I start to wonder if it's worth it (for the record, chocolate is always worth it, but still, I wonder). And I can't get rid of the nagging worry in the back of my mind. What if, gulp, when I get to the next level, I can't face a candy bar or cookie until, heaven forbid, noon?
Maybe, if I try really hard, I can come up with a way to avoid the next level before I get there.
Was it not enough for her that I regularly collapsed on the floor in a heap after each and every set of fifteen reps, gasping for air like a fish out of water? Wasn't she happy that I couldn't climb the stairs for a week after each session without the aid of at least three people, a lever and a pulley? Didn't she feel job satisfaction when such physically demanding tasks as, oh, it don't know, blinking and breathing became painful enough to make me seriously contemplate not?
What gave her the idea I was ready for the next level? How exactly did that thought process go?
Okay, three sets of fifteen didn't literally kill her, so let's go for five sets of twenty. Hmmm. Still able to hang on to consciousness by a thread, so let's kick it up to the next level and do eight sets of one hundred. Holding one thousand pound weights. In each hand. And to rest in between each set, she can drop it down a level and do ten sets of twenty other exercises from the I'd-rather-be-getting-a-root-canal-without-Novocain list.
I used to dread the mornings she showed up with a device called a Bosu, that I'm sure they invented during the Spanish Inquisition (basically, it is one of those big exercise balls cut in half and mounted on a plastic frame).
Like the ground wasn't hurtling toward my face fast enough with a regular, old-fashioned push-up, I now had the added challenge of trying to balance on a round, springy object without crash-landing my way to a nose reconstruction.
"Go deeper," she would urge. "Keep those hips up."
Yeah, like either one of those things were actually possible. Well, on second thought, maybe the deeper was possible, as long as I didn't have to push back up, but somehow I got the impression that wasn't what she meant.
Before I could fully recover from the upper body work though (in other words, three days bed rest), we would move on to the legs.
"Okay, you're going to do squats with one leg on the Bosu, then jump over it, landing in a squat with the other leg on the Bosu."
I'm going to do what???!!! Evidently, she had mistaken me for a frog. I barely have enough strength and coordination to manage a normal squat on solid ground, let alone squatting, hopping, and changing legs.
If I'd had so much as an ounce of strength left after the ten sets of twenty (or was it twenty sets of ten? I don't know because I lost count somewhere around two), I would have seriously considered finding an ice pick and creating a new exercise for my biceps involving the Bosu and a sharp, downward movement, then kicked it to the curb with my powerful glutes.
I tried in vain to convince my trainer that just because I no longer felt like blacking out or throwing up half-way through our sessions didn't mean I was ready for this next level. I was happy where I was, really. I didn't need to ever again wear a bathing suit that didn't have a stomach panel and skirt. And who needed sleeveless tops anyway? Air conditioning had been invented so that we would be comfortable wearing long-sleeve shirts in ninety-five degree temperatures.
She didn't buy it, and we moved on to the dreaded "next level".
I have now gone from being a frog to a kangaroo, hopping madly back and forth across my backyard, leaping and springing into the air, like I'm trying out for either the NBA or Olympic pole-vaulting team (without the pole).
"Higher," she tells me. "4001, 4002..."
Half the time she doesn't even count out loud anymore though because I think she's afraid if I hear that I'm only on ten and I have to get to 8000, I might do something drastic like hop over to the neighbor's yard and seek sanctuary.
Lunges off a Bosu? That's for sissies. The four-foot high steps down to the patio are a much better place to really work the quads. And hey, we've gone waaaay beyond using those wimpy stairs in the house for step-ups too. Now the eight-foot wall out back is just right for that treat. Oh, and let's add a karate kick and a lunge for good measure, while doing presses with two thousand pound weights, blindfolded and backwards.
I'm beginning to get nostalgic for the good old days when she would hand me a two pound weight and worry that I was going to give myself a concussion trying to lift it with both hands over my head.
The worst part though about this next level stuff is that nowadays if I survive the full hour (and it is pretty much touch and go), I can't even reward myself with coffee and chocolate. I head for the nearest bottle of water and have to debate whether I want to drink it or just pour it over my head. It's at least an hour before I can even contemplate the thought of anything else, and by then, I start to wonder if it's worth it (for the record, chocolate is always worth it, but still, I wonder). And I can't get rid of the nagging worry in the back of my mind. What if, gulp, when I get to the next level, I can't face a candy bar or cookie until, heaven forbid, noon?
Maybe, if I try really hard, I can come up with a way to avoid the next level before I get there.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Happy Anniversary
In honor of its tenth anniversary next month, Blogger has invited people to write about the role blogging plays in their life. Apparently, some people use their blogs to help them find a job, keep in touch with family and friends, form support groups and even showcase their talents.
Not me. I keep a blog because this month is my twenty-second wedding anniversary, and, after twenty-two years of listening to me ramble on about the latest disaster to befall me, Tim has finally managed, with much diligent practice, to tune me out. I'm convinced that when I talk, it's like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. All he hears is, "wah-wah, wah wah. "
I would share my woes with my friends, but, well, then I would have no friends, so in the end, keeping a blog is cheaper than therapy.
I guess I can't blame Tim too much though, because I do seem to have more than my share of issues with cable companies, phone companies, computers (okay, technology in general), planes, trains, automobiles and, oh yeah, inanimate objects.
The first few years we were married, Tim was very sympathetic to whatever my latest plight was. For example, when my new car developed a personality of its own, sort of like Stephen King's Christine, he was there for me.
As I rode down the street, Christine Jr. would decide she didn't feel like listening to rock, and change the channel to, say, rap or maybe talk radio, never anything I would even remotely, under pain of death, be interested in.
I would try changing it back. Christine Jr. ignored my request. I tried changing it to something else, anything else, before I had to either slit my wrists or become Vanilla Ice's number one fan. Christine Jr. decided to go with a solid, "no way". Finally, in total frustration, I would turn the radio off completely. Or not. Use of the button depended on whether or not Christine Jr. was finished with getting me to appreciate the finer points of the latest Milli Vanilli song.
As if that wasn't enough, Christine Jr. also taunted me by randomly locking and unlocking the doors. Bad neighborhood? Unlock! (he he he) Stopping to get gas? Oooooh, too bad for you. Lock! Hey, just so you know, you can push those buttons all day. Nobody tells me what to do!
Naturally, when I took her into the shop, there wasn't a thing wrong with her. Oh no, I was the crazy one. Tim took my side though against Christine Jr., and helped me exorcise her (okay, so we traded her in...and I could only hope it was some smug, know-it-all mechanic who somehow got saddled with her).
As the years have passed though, Tim has come to accept situations such as this to be the norm, sort of like Darrin accepted Samantha, Major Nelson, Jeannie, or Ricky did Lucy; you know, calm, cool and collected.
Latest case in point was a few weeks ago on the train to NYC.
Tim had forgotten his ipod, so I insisted on getting a splitter and second set of earbuds so we could share mine. As we settled into our seats, Tim opened his newspaper and began reading. I began setting up base camp.
First: shelter. Knowing from past experience that Amtrak has somehow gotten the idea that they are transporting sides of beef as opposed to people in the cars, I came prepared with a jacket and a pashmina, which I proceeded to wrap myself in, mummy-like.
Second: food. The only thing worse than airline food is train food. Reheated, microwaved chicken. Rubber ball. Enough said. So, I pulled down my tray table and foraged in my Mary Poppins-like bag for my stash of cookies, pretzels, honey-roasted almonds and bagel. That should be just about enough for a few hours. About this time, they came through offering beverages, so I took a coffee and added it to the growing pile.
Third: necessities of life. I rooted out my copy of the latest People magazine, blackberry, hand sanitizer, reading glasses, tic-tacs, ipod, and kindle. Now I was ready to enjoy the ride.
Over Tim's objections that he had plenty to occupy him (please, he only had a few measly newspapers and his blackberry, the equivalent of going on a week's vacation with only a toothbrush and single change of underwear), I began setting up the ipod. And that is when the curse struck.
Somehow, through no fault of my own, the cords and wires had become inextricably tangled into one giant mess. Patiently, I worked at the knots, snaking an earbud through here and a prong under there. I threaded, tugged and pulled for a good ten minutes. Tim just rolled his eyes and hid behind his paper as though that would make him invisible.
After another fruitless few minutes (seriously, how do neatly coiled cords become so entangled? Are there little purse gnomes that get their jollies out of stuff like this?) I decided I needed to get a fresh perspective and tried to recline my seat a bit (yeah, more room was going to magically untangle the cords--I remember learning that my first year of high school physics).
I pressed the button and pushed back, and...nothing. I used two thumbs to press the button...still nothing. I used four fingers and a forearm...and still nothing. I tried just the middle finger which I knew wouldn't work, but it made me feel better, and flung myself back against the seat like a battering ram...once again, nothing.
Finally, Tim could ignore it no longer, and with a muttered oath, he stood up, leaned across the seat and tried to muscle the seat down. It moved a whole quarter of an inch...and so did my coffee, right onto my lap.
You see...disaster. And that is why I keep a blog.
Not me. I keep a blog because this month is my twenty-second wedding anniversary, and, after twenty-two years of listening to me ramble on about the latest disaster to befall me, Tim has finally managed, with much diligent practice, to tune me out. I'm convinced that when I talk, it's like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons. All he hears is, "wah-wah, wah wah. "
I would share my woes with my friends, but, well, then I would have no friends, so in the end, keeping a blog is cheaper than therapy.
I guess I can't blame Tim too much though, because I do seem to have more than my share of issues with cable companies, phone companies, computers (okay, technology in general), planes, trains, automobiles and, oh yeah, inanimate objects.
The first few years we were married, Tim was very sympathetic to whatever my latest plight was. For example, when my new car developed a personality of its own, sort of like Stephen King's Christine, he was there for me.
As I rode down the street, Christine Jr. would decide she didn't feel like listening to rock, and change the channel to, say, rap or maybe talk radio, never anything I would even remotely, under pain of death, be interested in.
I would try changing it back. Christine Jr. ignored my request. I tried changing it to something else, anything else, before I had to either slit my wrists or become Vanilla Ice's number one fan. Christine Jr. decided to go with a solid, "no way". Finally, in total frustration, I would turn the radio off completely. Or not. Use of the button depended on whether or not Christine Jr. was finished with getting me to appreciate the finer points of the latest Milli Vanilli song.
As if that wasn't enough, Christine Jr. also taunted me by randomly locking and unlocking the doors. Bad neighborhood? Unlock! (he he he) Stopping to get gas? Oooooh, too bad for you. Lock! Hey, just so you know, you can push those buttons all day. Nobody tells me what to do!
Naturally, when I took her into the shop, there wasn't a thing wrong with her. Oh no, I was the crazy one. Tim took my side though against Christine Jr., and helped me exorcise her (okay, so we traded her in...and I could only hope it was some smug, know-it-all mechanic who somehow got saddled with her).
As the years have passed though, Tim has come to accept situations such as this to be the norm, sort of like Darrin accepted Samantha, Major Nelson, Jeannie, or Ricky did Lucy; you know, calm, cool and collected.
Latest case in point was a few weeks ago on the train to NYC.
Tim had forgotten his ipod, so I insisted on getting a splitter and second set of earbuds so we could share mine. As we settled into our seats, Tim opened his newspaper and began reading. I began setting up base camp.
First: shelter. Knowing from past experience that Amtrak has somehow gotten the idea that they are transporting sides of beef as opposed to people in the cars, I came prepared with a jacket and a pashmina, which I proceeded to wrap myself in, mummy-like.
Second: food. The only thing worse than airline food is train food. Reheated, microwaved chicken. Rubber ball. Enough said. So, I pulled down my tray table and foraged in my Mary Poppins-like bag for my stash of cookies, pretzels, honey-roasted almonds and bagel. That should be just about enough for a few hours. About this time, they came through offering beverages, so I took a coffee and added it to the growing pile.
Third: necessities of life. I rooted out my copy of the latest People magazine, blackberry, hand sanitizer, reading glasses, tic-tacs, ipod, and kindle. Now I was ready to enjoy the ride.
Over Tim's objections that he had plenty to occupy him (please, he only had a few measly newspapers and his blackberry, the equivalent of going on a week's vacation with only a toothbrush and single change of underwear), I began setting up the ipod. And that is when the curse struck.
Somehow, through no fault of my own, the cords and wires had become inextricably tangled into one giant mess. Patiently, I worked at the knots, snaking an earbud through here and a prong under there. I threaded, tugged and pulled for a good ten minutes. Tim just rolled his eyes and hid behind his paper as though that would make him invisible.
After another fruitless few minutes (seriously, how do neatly coiled cords become so entangled? Are there little purse gnomes that get their jollies out of stuff like this?) I decided I needed to get a fresh perspective and tried to recline my seat a bit (yeah, more room was going to magically untangle the cords--I remember learning that my first year of high school physics).
I pressed the button and pushed back, and...nothing. I used two thumbs to press the button...still nothing. I used four fingers and a forearm...and still nothing. I tried just the middle finger which I knew wouldn't work, but it made me feel better, and flung myself back against the seat like a battering ram...once again, nothing.
Finally, Tim could ignore it no longer, and with a muttered oath, he stood up, leaned across the seat and tried to muscle the seat down. It moved a whole quarter of an inch...and so did my coffee, right onto my lap.
You see...disaster. And that is why I keep a blog.
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