I admit, I can be materialistic at times.  Ok, a lot of the time.  This is something I am not proud of but I like nice things and have always been that way.  I did not grow up in an affluent family but was taught at an early age to appreciate the finer things and bargain shop to get them.  I have such fond memories of going into Filene’s Basement in Boston on the train with my mother and learning that Italians make the best shoes.  If you remember that store you will also remember searching the tags to see which item had the biggest discount.  I may not have always paid attention in school but I always paid attention to her shopping advice.  I now proudly hand that knowledge down to my daughter.

Nothing was ever handed to me, I worked for it, and I worked hard.  I missed out on a lot when I was young because I had to work but I think it made me a better person, it made me realize the value of a dollar.  I bought my own cars, which were always new ( I love that new car smell), put myself through college and saved enough for a down payment of a house.  Now I don’t really work that hard but I scored a husband that does, which I like to think took hard work.  It is not easy being a trophy wife.

Despite the Kate Spade bags and endless supply of J. Crew socks, which are always purchased on sale, there is one thing that I enjoy more than anything else and won’t bargain shop for.  One truly materialistic thing that I wonder if I should be ashamed of enjoying so much.  It’s my landscapers.  There, I said it, judge me as you will, but it brings a tear to my eye and makes me proud to be an American that I have this privilege to hire them.  Our yard is the size of a postage stamp but it looks so good.  They are the only people that can charge me whatever they want for services that I did not request and I will willingly pay it.  Does that make me a bad person that I enjoy this so much?  That in ten minutes they can accomplish what would take my husband two hours and broken weed wacker string.  Isn’t it better to have that quality family time while supporting the economy?  The grass truly is always greener….

Remember when we were young and our school desks were in rows?  This was the norm for hundreds of years I would imagine. When did this concept become a bad idea? Who was the genius that decided they couldn’t leave well enough alone. How much money did our school systems spend on studies to be told that the desks should face and touch each other in a cluster. You know what word automatically follows cluster? Yeah, that’s what’s going on in schools today.

I was a talker, I admit. I was the girl that was always turned around in her seat and asked if I would like to share with the class. Of course I was very polite and would say no thank you, I do not wish to share. I was raised with manners you know. Having our desks in rows did deter me somewhat and kept the chatting and distraction to a minimum and I did actually manage to somewhat succeed in life. Today, I probably wouldn’t make it past the fourth grade.

So what rocket scientist decided our children’s desks should be clumped into groups of five touching and facing each other? Did no one stop and think this might be a bad idea?  Now as a mother, I am being told my child is distracted in class and having difficulty focusing. Really? That’s a shock! How can that be? His desk is touching other children’s desks and he is not focusing? I can’t think of any way to cut down on the distraction. How about put the desks in rows? Imagine all the money that would have been saved if someone had just asked me or left well enough alone.  Sometimes if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

This morning as I was getting ready I noticed my wrinkles.  I pay pretty good money for an eye cream that promises to eliminate my laugh lines.  I strive to smooth them so that I might have younger looking skin.  It doesn’t work but kudos to them for tricking me into buying it.  Then I thought, should I really be working so hard to try to hide these laugh lines?  They mean I smile a lot, isn’t that a good thing?

Maybe instead of being embarrassed of them I should be proud.  Proud that I laugh and smile a lot.  Proud that I can find the humor in most situations.  Proud that I can make people smile with my nonsensical style of speaking.  This society teaches us that it is bad to have flaws and we need to strive for perfection.   I don’t want to be perfect, I want to be me.

Well society, too bad, I have laugh lines and I consider them a badge of honor.  I’m proud of my battle scars because a smile is a gift.  If I will be physically “scarred” by giving everyone I see a smile, then so be it.  Life is too short and I’m just going to keep on smiling.

This weekend solidified my theory that the entire state of Maine seems to be under some sort of trance when it comes to making coffee.  I’m not sure if it is a demonic trance that warrants the need of a blanket exorcism over the entire state, a form of cult brainwashing, The Dome that Stephen King is referring to, or maybe a really odd coincidence that Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me is always playing at the very moment I order.  Whatever the reason may be, apparently it is impossible for a person to make a coffee without adding sugar.  No matter how many times I have ordered coffee without sugar while in Maine, it contains sugar.

I am truly baffled as to why this happens.  They know there isn’t supposed to be sugar in the coffee but something unseen is forcing them to add sugar.  It’s as if when they look over at the sugar container the counter starts to shake, they try to fight it but they can’t.  Their arm seems to have a mind of its own that they can’t control.  They.  Must.  Add.  Sugar.

What makes it so much worse than the money wasted, is that I really look forward to that cup of coffee.  I love coffee, I have killed for less than a good cup of coffee.  It’s like a little special treat that adds some sunshine to your day.  A small promise of an extra boast of energy.  As you pull away from the drive through window all seems right in the world until you take a sip and want to throw the coffee back at the person that handed it to you.  Don’t worry, I would never do that, I can’t handle another stint in prison.  Of course you don’t notice that the coffee contains sugar until it is too late, especially at Dunkin Donuts because the coffee will burn all of the skin out of your mouth if you don’t wait 45 minutes before your first sip.

I think the next time I order coffee while in Maine I will have to do something drastic.  I may actually get out of my car and go inside to order so that I can watch them make it.  I know, it sounds horrible but it’s a sacrifice I am willing to take to get the coffee I deserve.

Remember when pulling an all-nighter was fun? Well it definitely isn’t at my age, especially when you have children and when it is only because you couldn’t sleep. I know where I was last night and my clothes aren’t on backwards so that’s a good thing, but I’m just too old for this.  My clothes always stayed in the correct place, but I did have a neighbor who found her underwear on her front walkway one morning. I prefer to keep mine on at all times while I’m out but to each his own, who am I to judge? Who am I kidding, I judge all the time, the little tramp.

So this morning I keep finding myself with my head on the kitchen table laying in a pool of my own drool. Don’t you hate when you get to that point where coffee no longer has any effect? You’re shaking like crazy and look like you have been doing heroin, but you keep falling asleep standing up. Today I’m trying a caffeine IV which is going to make it difficult to get my Fitbit steps up today. Good thing I have dogs.

Of course the school keeps telling my children that breakfast is the most important meal of the day so there was no way I was getting out of that today. I tried telling them today was our fasting day for our religion, Mommyisfreakingtiredism, but they didn’t buy it. I’m not really sure what I packed them for lunch. I vaguely remember a bag of Oreos and a tube of toothpaste. This is a great time to reinforce that they need to be thankful for whatever they have.

Tonight while visions of sugarplums danced in people’s heads, the sound of a freight train lay next to me in bed. There was no hope of sleep with my husband’s snoring and for some strange reason I started thinking about my Boston accent. Maybe the voices in my head weren’t pronouncing their r’s. What better way to cure insomnia than to get up and write a blog. At least I know it will help cure someone else’s insomnia by reading it.

I am a proud Bostonian, through and through and I have been known to slap people for something as simple as referring to jimmies as chocolate sprinkles. There are so many Boston specific oddities but I think the most popular is how Boston seems to be the place where the letter “r” goes to die. It’s a strange thing actually, it’s almost as if our genetic makeup doesn’t allow for the correct pronunciation of the letter within a word. It’s not as if we can’t pronounce the letter “r”, it’s just that when it comes to putting it into a word, we can’t see it, it disappears. Where’d it go, I don’t know, but it’s gone!

I grew up in the town of Arlington which is about seven miles North of Boston, I believe. The sign on the town limits was actually printed as Welcome to Ahlington, even the sign itself couldn’t pronounce the “r”. My accent used to be quite strong as were those around me. Then my husband and I decided to see the world and explore new things. So we moved to the next town over.   Once you crossed the border, sounds more exotic to say it that way, it was almost as if the accent had disappeared. All of a sudden I became very aware of my accent and started to force myself to pronounce the letter “r” inside a word and not just add it to the end of words where it doesn’t belong.

This might sound like an easy task but it really isn’t. They should offer a speech therapy class for those of us struggling to add r’s to words. That would be quite funny actually, it would be a room filled with sounds similar to that of a gender confused tiger’s mating call. Roahrrrrr. My husband’s new accent for some strange reason sounds like a Mid Westerner with a speech impediment. Believe me, our children get hours of enjoyment laughing when we speak. I may not sound as Boston as I used to but I will forever be a proud Bostonian. Boston, you’re my home.

For my birthday I got a Fitbit, despite the ranting of my previous blog it does in fact work.  I was curious mostly about my heart rate and where that tipping point might be between good old gluttony and heart disease.  So far, so good.  I apparently move around quite a bit getting my children ready for school and cleaning up the war zone that is left for me.  Also, when I work from home I am constantly moving and going up and down stairs.

Exercise has never been something I was thrilled about.  I never wanted to work out and used to cheat any time we had to run around the field at school.  I was way too clumsy for a treadmill and every time I did a hair flip, I would go flying off of the stupid thing.  Of course back then it really didn’t matter because I was rail thin and I had to walk everywhere.  Now that I’m in my 40’s it does matter and sadly, due to back problems, exercise isn’t really possible anymore without pain.  How I wish I had done more when I could, maybe the back problems wouldn’t have been so bad now.   Hindsight is 20/20.

So, it’s 8:30 am and I’ve already walked 1,100 steps and have barely left the house.  That’s pretty good, right?  Let’s just keep it our little secret that the dog had it on its leg while chasing a squirrel around the yard.  I needed to get to a point where I wouldn’t feel guilty about having leftover birthday cake for breakfast.  It’s practically a breakfast bar anyway; eggs, jam, flour, coconut….

I always assumed because I didn’t actually “work out” that I didn’t get any exercise.  I guess I really do get more than I thought.  This might in fact be the reason that I have been able to maintain a girlish figure of 472 pounds and not tipped the “half a buck” scale.  Of course, most of that weight is water and each breast must weigh a good 100 pounds, so in all reality some might consider me anorexic.  Can you believe that all this time I had my eating disorder wrong?

I do wish I could increase my heart rate and hope someday I will find a way to do so.  I find it interesting how at every doctor’s appointment they always ask if I exercise but when I say no, they just leave it at that.  Hmmm, if you read into that a little you might be able to say that exercising isn’t good for you.  If it was you would think the doctor would say something.  If I had said yes, I am a runner, they probably would have told me to stop.  Running takes such a toll on your body that it can’t possibly be healthy.

Did you know that people that run marathons often have their toenails fall off?  Good lord, why would you put yourself through that voluntarily?  I mean how can you look good in your adorable sandals if you are missing toenails?  Get your priorities straight people.  Why would automobiles have been created if we were supposed to run everywhere.  It’s bad enough I get a foot cramp when I drive 26.2 miles.

Today is my birthday!!!  I am still a whole bunch of old but today it’s wrapped in a bow.  I really do love birthdays, my mentality is very comparable with a child’s on this day.  It isn’t the gifts that I love, it’s the attention which is not something I typically enjoy.  I love to hear “Happy Birthday” and would be thrilled if there was a parade but that doesn’t seem likely.  I’m not really sure why I feel so special on this day, it’s not like I am the only person that has one.  The biggest perk is that there are no calories today, hence the tradition of eating cake.

The only unfortunate part about birthdays is that there must be a number associated with it.  I am thankful for every one that I get but do we really need to count them?  Remember the days when you were excited about that number because it meant you were at a milestone you have been waiting for.  You were finally a teenager, could drive, vote, drink, etc.  Now as my husband always says, birthdays mean you are one year closer to death.  I prefer to say Social Security, it seems a lot less morbid.

Even though I am a 40 something year old, I still feel young.  I moan every time I get out of a chair and I get rug burns on my breasts when I don’t wear a bra, but I mentally feel young.   Laughter is the key to feeling young and I do that any chance I can get.  Often times it’s when I’m alone which is fine unless you are out in public.  When that happens you just pretend you are on some Bluetooth type phone surgically implanted in your ear.  Just mouth “conference call” to anyone staring.

My family always makes my day feel special.  I had coffee and a muffin waiting when I woke up, cards, some of my favorite treats, it was wonderful.  I am so fortunate and thankful for all of the people in my life.  With age comes the wisdom to know who and what matter and to focus on those things.  It really is the little things in life, and I take time to notice these things every day and never take them for granted.  It isn’t what you have, what you wear, or where you live.  It’s how you treat people and making sure you take the time to stop and look around often.  Each day is truly a gift.

Speaking of gifts, my family was very generous and gave me a Fitbit for my birthday.   I have a feeling it’s broken, however, because it isn’t registering the 10,000 steps I know it takes to get from my kitchen to the bathroom.   I don’t need technology to tell me how much I walk, the chafing between my thighs usually does that job for me.

Happy birthday to me!!!!

This morning as I was scrolling through my Facebook posts, I happened upon a picture of a woman.  Not sure if it was an ad for yoga, or someone had liked her yoga page, something like that.  Anyway, the thing that struck me about this woman’s picture was that you could actually see her ribs through her workout attire.  You can barely see my ribs with an x-ray.  Does this woman eat?

Sadly, food is a huge part of my life.  I love food.  They say nothing tastes better than skinny but I beg to differ.  Lots of things taste better than skinny, should I list them.  Let me lick the cheese off of my fingers first.  Somehow, unbeknownst to me, I don’t weigh 500 pounds.  I’m about one cupcake away but I’m not there yet.  I do, however, have more rolls than a bakery.  I like to think of them as curves.  Oooh, I should go to the bakery today.

I keep saying I will start to eat better.  Tomorrow.  I’ll get back into the multiple items of clothing hanging in my closet that I can no longer fit into.  Tomorrow. It’s just so much easier to go out and buy new clothes and they’re so pretty.  Tomorrow?  I like pretty things.  I think my obsession with shoes might be partly because I never outgrow them.  I know, tomorrow I’ll go shoe shopping.  Fun!

Maybe tomorrow before I go shoe shopping I’ll make one of those green drinks.  Nah, I’ll just eat only green M&M’s and pretend it’s a healthy smoothie.  After all, there’s always tomorrow.

If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then I must be in a Barcalounger next to Satan.  Not because I don’t try, really, I feel like every day I am on an uphill battle to keep my house neat, clean and organized.  I just keep sliding down that hill getting dirt where it shouldn’t be, mostly because I have two children, three if you count my husband.  Once I get everyone out the door in the morning, I turn around and my house looks like a war zone.  How does this happen?  This never happened to my mother.

I grew up in an immaculate home where dust was never allowed to visit.  My mother is an Italian Greek woman (wonderful combination, yummy foods always) that would literally have your glass washed, dried and put away before you even realized you had taken the last sip.  As an adult, sometimes I stop by her home unexpectedly just to see if I could find a pillow askew or a dust bunny hopping around, but no, never is anything out of place or dirty.  So you think that might have rubbed off on me, right?  Not so much.

I have been much better about at least keeping the first floor presentable.  However, it is only presentable during the hours of 10:00 – 3:00 while my children are at school.  Once my family comes home all bets are off.  The upstairs is permanently off limits because that’s where I hide all of the items I don’t know what to do with on the first floor.  Why do I have those items?  Why can’t I figure out where they should go?  Why can’t I be that person that has a place for everything and everything in it’s place.  I got a label maker thinking maybe that would help with organization.  Yeah, well I probably should have labeled the label maker because I can’t remember where I put it.

I like to think that it is because I live in an older home with very small closets.  My mother’s house is older and has fewer closets, damn that woman.  I dream of living in a huge house with walk in closets everywhere filled with labeled organized bins.  I would have to buy a new label maker but it would be worth it.  Unfortunately, in the town I live in to afford such a home I would have to sell most of my organs and at least one child.  With a larger home comes more area to clean though.  More windows, which is not something I choose to clean, ever.  If they get dirty I either move, or think of it as a nice surprise when you walk outside and see that it is actually sunny out.  I love surprises.

There are some things in my home that I don’t even notice anymore.  My dogs scratch at our family room door when they need to go outside.  The paint is mostly gone where they scratch but instead of re-painting the door, I have started to look at it as a way my dogs express themselves, kind of like art.  It makes me feel better about the fact that it will probably be like that for years.  I could say that all of this happens because I live such an overscheduled life, but I’m starting to think that I might just be lazy, shhh, don’t tell my mom she was right.