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Not to make waves, but SHUT UP! #WorkoutWednesday

May 8, 2019 by Beth

 

United States Olympic Training Center this ain’t.

Dear H2Oldsters,*

Now that I’ve lost the equivalent of nine five-pound bags of sugar (!), it’s time to firm up what remains. Taking on those wobbly bits means I take on water — aerobics in the YMCA pool.

Why that and not some other group exercise class?

  1. I don’t like to sweat.
  2. It’s easier on the joints.
  3. I feel like a badass when I can do all the exercises you can’t.

Sorry. (Not sorry.)

Yes, I’m about 30-40 years younger than you. Wet behind the ears, even. (Yuk, yuk. Sorry. I am sorry.)

But it isn’t that.

Here’s the thing:
I bet you COULD do all the exercises if you would SHUT YOUR BIG YAPPERS and try.

Elderly avengers assemble!

From the moment you get in the pool, you do not stop talking. The class begins, you keep at it. People like me who are there to GET STUFF DONE have to swim around you.

Why you gotta be like that?

For real: Why are you there? Why bother putting on a bathing suit? Just meet the other crones at Starbucks or whatever. Or hang out in the Y lobby and chat. There are comfy couches there. Easy on the bones.

At the very least, go to the other end of the pool.

If you do, all this will be water under the bridge. (Sorry. I can’t help it. It’s too easy.)

Yours through hell and high water,
Beth

* Come on! That’s a little funny, no?

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Irritant, thy name is Dominic: The retainer tale #SundayRead

May 5, 2019 by Beth

Dear Dominic,

Yes, I’m writing to you again. Yes, it’s because you are driving me crazy. Again.

Want me to stop writing about you? Stop being a buffoon.

You had your new retainer for exactly a week. Then you threw it away with trash on your lunch tray.

No big deal, right? Call the orthodontist and ask for a replacement.

Oh, it IS a big deal. Here’s a timeline of why:

Friday, April 19: Braces off. There is much rejoicing.

Friday, April 26: The incident. (What were you thinking? Expensive retainer? Who needs that old thing?)

Monday, April 29: I call the orthodontist in Savannah — four hours away — where you completed your braces plan. “Oh, we don’t keep those molds. We need him to come in to get a new impression.” Not happening.

So I call the orthodontist on our health plan in Atlanta at the location that is closest to us. There is no answer. All day.

Tuesday, April 30: Resume calling. Finally get a voice mailbox. Leave message.

Wednesday, May 1: Call again. Get human who says the orthodontist is only in that location on Tuesdays and every other Thursday. What the flock? Human says we can take our chances during walk-in hours early Thursday morning in a different part of Atlanta.

Side note: Shall I remind you that Atlanta traffic is so bad that a five-mile journey might require us to tune up our car and pack a lunch?

Thursday, May 2: Wake up before dawn to make it to the walk-in appointment first. Beg the people to get you in and out quickly so you can make it to school. Your grades are not good enough for a day away from instruction. They make an impression — of your lower teeth. Why didn’t you tell them you needed the top instead? I had to tell them. Come on, Dominic!

They tell me to come back in the afternoon to pick up the finished product. So I battle rush-hour traffic to get there. Yet, they will not give me the retainer. They need to try it out on you.

For the love of God.

Couldn’t someone have told us this during the morning visit? I wasted 1.5 hours driving. Yay for the My Favorite Murder podcast. (Stay sexy, and chain your kid’s retainer to his body.)

Friday, May 3: Wake up before dawn to meet “Zane” at the orthodontist location closest to us. How dare you be cranky because I rushed you to get out the door on time! Don’t make me use what I learned via MFM.

Here you are with your new $200 retainer on your $3,000 smile. The sign indicates my feeling about all this business.

Don’t ever doubt my love for you. The fact that you are still breathing after all this should be proof enough.

If you lose this retainer, I’m going to make you earn the money to replace it by cleaning my car with your toothbrush.

I’m serious.

Try me.

Love and kisses,
Your out-of-patience mother

 

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Show me the money! #WinItWednesday (Warning: #GoTS8E3 reference)

May 1, 2019 by Beth

Dear Lottery God:

My chicken sacrifices to you are getting nowhere. (Granted, they are of the grocery cutlet variety — I’m not a monster — but still.)

So I’m making this public plea.

My family and I need your help.

Our savings have been wiped out as fast as the Dothraki horde in the Battle of Winterfell.

Why? Here’s a short list:

1. A replacement retainer for Dominic. Yes, already. He had the new retainer for exactly a week before throwing it away with his lunch trash at school. [HEAVY SIGH]

2. New shoes for Dominic. He now wears a size 11. 11! At the age of 14. You saw the photos from my last post. Puberty, thou art a bitch to the budget.

3. Income taxes. Effing Pat.

4. Truck-repair expenses. Eddie’s truck is 16 years old. That’s about 112 years in our capitalist, material culture. But I’d rather fix it than take on a car payment and higher ad-valorem taxes. Call me old fashioned.

5. A speeding ticket. Don’t yell at me that this is my own fault. I promise I wasn’t speeding — I was on my way to see some important people perform in Athens but I was driving in heavy traffic! (It’s Atlanta, after all.) I disputed the ticket, but the Chamblee Municipal Court judge was not having it. I shouldn’t have even tried. She tacked on $50 extra to the fine because I had the nerve to go to court instead of paying outright. Harumph.

Those who say “money can’t buy happiness” must already have money. I promise I would do good things with the winnings. I’d send some family and friends on well-deserved vacations, fund important initiatives for others, give money to my four alma maters for student scholarships.

Oh yeah, and buy a villa in Spain on the Mediterranean. You know. As you do.

May the odds be ever in my favor.

Thank you for your consideration in this matter (and for helping me stop wasting broilers),
Beth

 

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Becoming a not-so-fat-bottomed girl (#SpotlightSunday on my de-whaling journey)

April 28, 2019 by Beth

Dear Trish,

Hope you and Irv are doing well. I miss seeing you on a regular basis, trying new beers, playing Cranium, and complaining about Ed.

I do want to take this opportunity to say thank you for inviting me to your wedding. It turned out to be the catalyst for an important journey for me.

I didn’t realize quite how fat I was until I couldn’t squeeze into the dress I brought to Sedona for your big day. This dress had always been my go-to dress. (Full disclosure: It’s a maternity dress. It doesn’t look like a maternity dress. Nothing maternity about it except that it has an empire waist. I just like it because it’s a pretty green silk.)

But I had a rude awakening when I was getting ready for your event.

Houston, we have a problem.

The dress must have shrunk at the drycleaner, right?

My Spanx waved the white flag.

I’m sorry I ruined all your wedding photos trying desperately to either avoid the camera or hide behind my children.

Look here. Dominic is not large enough to cover me:Let’s take a closer look:

Yes, yes, I know this is counter to the whole body-positivity movement. But let’s be honest: We all know when we are not the size we should be.

No one wants to feel like their seams are screaming.

The week I got back, I went out to dinner with my friend Kim. She had dropped 30 pounds and looked great. We have the same feelings about diets and working out (i.e., hate them with a white-hot passion). She shared her secret (and I will too if anyone wants to DM me), and I was off and running immediately.

I started my program the last week of September. This week, I hit my goal weight.

I’ve lost 45 pounds. That’s like losing a first grader.

And three dress sizes for me.

Here I am in the wedding-attendance dress that I now need to have altered. (Dominic has changed considerably too.)

Here’s the side-by-side before-and-after image for your viewing pleasure.

And here’s one of me the day I started this journey next to how I look today.

I feel so much better about myself.

It’s not a physical thing — I could always do stairs and whatnot.

It’s a mental thing. Being about to reach deep into the back of the closet and grab pre-kid jeans? That’s some real joy right there.

This is not PC (Kate Moss even regrets saying it), but it’s true for me:

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

So thanks, Trish. Inadvertently, you started me on a better path.

Congratulations on your eight-month anniversary coming up.

Your not-so-fat friend,
Beth

 

 

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File under “never again”: Career Day #thursdaythoughts

April 25, 2019 by Beth

Dear Ms. Tiffany,

Thank you for contacting me regarding Career Day at the boys’ middle school. Here is my answer:

Last year’s experience was plenty for me, in that it was terrible, and I will never do it again. It was worse than Field Day at their elementary school. (Note to those who just subscribed to this blog: Please follow that link, and read the post. It’s one of my favorites, in a laugh-to-keep-from-crying kind of way.)

I spoke to four classes of sixth and seventh graders. No one cared about my current job at a university. They cared marginally more about my freelance work as a TV meteorologist and writer.

In my younger son’s class, his teacher didn’t even introduce me. She was too busy checking Facebook at the back of the room.

No one even made eye contact with me in two of the classes. It was like I was screaming into the Fortnite, hormone-filled void.

My older son’s class was the best. His teacher gave me a great intro, and his peers asked plenty of questions. Later, Dominic said he didn’t tell anyone his mom would be one of the speakers, which sounds about right.

But then, one of his friends turned to him and complimented my hindquarters.

(Hormones.)

Dominic told me he said, “DUDE, that’s my MOM!”

What can I tell you? I’m a hit with 13-14 year olds. Lucky me.

But the adoration of prepubescent males is still not enough to make me endure another Career Day.

I wish you all the best in your search for speakers.
Beth

 

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The weekend with a 14 year old: A dramedy in three parts/moods

April 22, 2019 by Beth

Dear Dominic:

There’s nothing that brings people closer than a road trip. I’m glad we had this weekend together, though it did not start off well. You seem to have three moods: angry, goofy and asleep.

The first was fully on display on the way down to Savannah so you could finally (FINALLY) get your braces off. If I hadn’t grabbed your phone, rolled down the window, and threatened to throw it out, I’m sure you would have stayed in attitude mode the whole damn weekend.

I think you are angry so much because you need more sleep. Your prefrontal cortex isn’t developed yet, so you haven’t figured out why a regular bedtime is a good thing. Let me show you some pictures that illustrate just how freakin’ tired you are.

 

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And because you are tired, you have no energy and move slower than a snail.

Here I am, waiting 30 minutes for you to be ready to leave Tammy’s house for the orthodontist.

Maybe it was the excitement of getting your braces off, but suddenly your funny side emerged. I tried to take a “before” picture of you. You didn’t like this one, saying you looked challenged. (Not your word. Yours was a non-PC one that I’ve asked you repeatedly not to use.)


You didn’t like this one either, saying you looked like you had witnessed a murder but were trying to pretend like you hadn’t.

But these two photos passed muster. You look great with your new smile.

Maybe that’s why you tolerated my happy hour with Bingo/Goat Yoga Lisa so well.

At any rate, it was a turning point that lasted the rest of the weekend. I came home early from Ladies Night Out because I had fallen and hit my head. You actually showed concern:

And you even wanted to take a nice photo with me yesterday.


So what do I have to do to get you to be like this all the time?

What’s the secret?

For the love of God, please tell me. I’ll be straight: Angry Dominic might find himself shipped off to boarding school.

Don’t try me.

Love you!
Mama

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Tales from the Crypt, aka H&R Block, Part 2: Electric Boogaloo #WednesdayWisdom #taxday

April 17, 2019 by Beth

Dear Pat,

As much as I admire your gumption to keep working long past retirement age, I think it’s time for you to consider calling it quits.

Monday was rough, but I thought our tax-prep nightmare was over.

I was wrong.

Yesterday, you sent this:

Eddie drew the short straw and went to get the new forms to mail.

As it turns out, your words were misleading: We still owe lots, but we now owe less thanks to your fix. Great! Thanks!

But why would you tell him that we should now call the IRS to find out exactly how much we owe? Come on, Pat. Isn’t that your job?

So I’m going to subtract the “refund” from the old amount and send a check for the result.

Pat, this experience has, quite frankly, sucked.

And we had to pay for the sucktitude. At least it wasn’t more:

No charge for your mistake? How generous.

You could have at least tried to make it up to us with another free pen.

Pat, I’m afraid it’s time for you to hang up your spurs. Go enjoy fruity drinks by a pool somewhere. Aren’t there great grandkids somewhere who need you?

Please, think of the children. And my sanity.

All my best,
Beth

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Tales from the Crypt, aka H&R Block #taxday #killme

April 15, 2019 by Beth

Dear IRS/U.S. Government:

We truly are long overdue for tax reform — if for no other reason than the fact that I wouldn’t even wish my H&R Block experience on my worst enemy. Not even on Mitch McConnell, and you know how I feel about him.

Usually, TurboTax and I hang out together for a few hours. I emerge grumpy but satisfied. And I always complete the process weeks in advance of the April 15 deadline.

This year I felt there were too many variables — selling a house, moving retirement funds, freelance work — for me to feel comfortable on my own.

Friends have used H&R Block, so I decided to take a chance. Let me just say this: With friends like that, who needs enemies?

This experience was beyond awful.

I’ve mentioned before that I am Tracy Flick. I had all my receipts categorized and added up. All my documents orderly. Everything laid out in sections in a folder.

I made an appointment two weeks ago to drop off my stuff.

I was assigned to Pat, someone’s great grandmother. She went through each piece of paper with me at 1/4 the speed of a regular person.

Then she told me she’d call me if she needed more information. Over the next week, she called and sent cryptic emails every day.

Today — FILING DAY — she told Eddie and me to come in at 7 to sign. That’s right in the middle of Gideon’s baseball game. But we went.

We sat in her cubicle and watched her work for TWO HOURS.

We watched her call in backup. Repeatedly.

Eddie was dismayed.

I was dismayed.

And then I took a catnap.

We asked her if we could leave to get Gideon at his game.

She dismissed us with a wave of her grizzled claw.

We returned at 10. On a school night. Y’all, I go to sleep at 10.

The door was locked. No one appeared to be inside.

But then from the back, a person emerged and let us in.

I regret to report that Pat still wasn’t done. She had to call in managerial backup. Again.

It’s now 10:40. We just left. We were the last people there. We are much poorer and completely exhausted, but compliant with your rules.

And Pat gave us a pen as a parting gift. For real.

Please, for the love of all that is holy, fix the system so it is easier for everyone.

I never want to go to here again.

Kthxbye,
Beth

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Words With Friends: The newest dating app? #SundayFunday

April 11, 2019 by Beth

Dear Hinge, Tinder, Grindr, Bumble, etc.

I know you have substantial market share in the dating app world. But y’all don’t have anything on Words With Friends. Apparently.

There’s plenty of middle-aged white dudes trolling WWF for ladies.

It’s a new frontier.

What is up with that?

It’s only been in the past few months that I have noticed this situation. (See here and here for recaps.)

But in the past week or so, it has gotten out of control. Here’s slideshow of my personal rogues gallery. (Names/faces hidden JUST IN CASE they are real people, which I doubt.)

 

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WHAT THE HECK?!

In my last post on the topic, I mentioned my plan to mess with these fellas. Like this:

But to be honest, there are so many of them, and it takes too much time/energy.

It would make sense to decline games from people I don’t know.

But then I wouldn’t have material for my blog, right?

Harris gets it.

I also wouldn’t be able to suggest to you that you get into the gaming scene to build market share.

Clearly there is interest from at least one subset of the population.

Just here for the points,
Beth

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“GOAT” does not always mean “greatest of all time” #goatyogareview

April 10, 2019 by Beth

Dear Readers:

Occasionally, I am fortunate enough to have a post from a guest blogger. Today is my lucky day (and yours too)!

I present to you the story of goat yoga, a strange phenomenon sweeping the nation. Sounds like something I would try. Alas, Bingo Lisa tried it first. Here is her account (edited slightly for blog voice and flow).

I’ll be back with a Words With Friends dating update later this week.

Love,
Beth

This kind of yoga really got my goat*
Guest post by Lisa W.

I’ll admit I was a bit excited about being invited to a baby shower where there would be goat yoga. I’m not a big fan of women-only baby showers. Unless I’m sure there will be alcohol, I usually avoid them.

My friend Trina, my 6-year-old daughter Cali and I drove out to the sticks in Ridgeland, South Carolina, to celebrate our friend Jessie and her baby boy’s approaching arrival.

I’d seen pictures of goat yoga online and all of it looked happy. People holding poses and nuzzling baby goats or having them on their backs.

Preggo Jessie (left) and a family member pose with four-legged friends.

Dorothy planned this event. She could not be more thrilled.

The yoga was supposed to be outside, which I now know is ideal. However, the weather was misty so the yoga class was moved inside into our host’s sunroom. We unrolled our mats with anticipation for the nearly ceremonial releasing of the goats. Oh, rabbits too. And chickens.
However. These animals are not potty trained. My expected serene yoga event turned into a literal shitshow.

The releasing of the goats quickly led to the goats releasing their bowels.

So much poop.

I attempted child’s pose and lowered my head per the teacher’s instructions. A baby goat then ran full speed at me and tried to head butt me. I realized I couldn’t let my guard down for a second.

Here’s Lisa on high alert.

The actual yoga lasted maybe five minutes because everyone spent the time either holding the goats, picking up their lovely presents, or trying to keep them from eating our mats.
We passed around tiny shower cocktail napkins to pick up nuggets and sop up pee. I joked that this was great training for the mom to be. If only those goats had worn diapers.

The goats show Jessie how she got pregnant, in case she didn’t know.

It seemed like most attendees had a great time.

Sara (left) and Trina appear to be having a blast.

Cali loved it too. Me, not so much.

Cali pats the bunny. Meanwhile, Lisa reports that her face looked like this the whole time.

I just couldn’t. I was counting the seconds till the end of goat yoga.
Bye Felicia.
When I got home, my husband Rob and I had this convo:
Rob: How was goat yoga?
Me: There are three yoga mats in the bed of your truck that belong in your work dumpster.
Rob: That fun, huh?
Never again. Thankfully, I needed a new yoga mat anyway.
Lisa

*Don’t blame Lisa for that headline. It’s all Beth.

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