peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

My grandmothers and great-grandmothers were quilters. I’m a fan. The colors. The craftsmanship. The history. The metaphor: the quilt representing life. Especially the crazy quilt. I read that while many quilts have a repeating pattern, the beauty of a crazy quilt lies in its differences. Remember the movie How to Make an American Quilt?

My youngest son had eye surgery two weeks ago. He had a lump on his eyelid that needed to be removed. Worried parents. Anesthesia. Hospital gown. IV. He was wheeled away down the long hospital hallway. Brave boy. I couldn’t hold back the tears.

An hour later, he  emerged from surgery, that brave boy of mine. With a patch on his eye, he looked small, but relieved. Three new stitches in his eyelid.

Two days of recovery at home. Then, back to school. Back to tumbling class. Back to normal life. Two weeks later, the stitches came out.

And we now have another block to sew into our quilt of life. Just with three less stitches.

I spotted this beauty of a quilt here: http://www.nebraskahistory.org/sites/mnh/crazy_quilts/

I know, I know. Kale is the “queen of greens” because it is one one of the most nutritious vegetables in the world–packed with antioxidants and anti-inflammatory qualities–vitamin K, vitamin A, and vitamin C.

Yet, I hate it. Here is what I have to say about kale.

You do not like green kale and ham?

I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

Could you, would you, with a goat?

I would not, could not, with a goat!

Would you, could you, on a boat?

I could not, would not, on a boat.
I will not, will not, with a goat.
I will not eat them in the rain.
I will not eat them on a train.
Not in the dark! Not in a tree!
Not in a car! You let me be!
I do not like them in a box.
I do not like them with a fox.
I will not eat them in a house.
I do not like them with a mouse.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them ANYWHERE!

I do not like green kale and ham!

I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

I started running jogging again. OK, let’s call it what it really is. Clomping.

You know, graceful like a Clydesdale? Clomp. Clomp. You could hear me coming a mile away.

I used to run. A lot. Like, obsessively. When I was in college, I’d log in between 50-75 miles a week. If I didn’t get “enough” miles in by Saturday, I’d run an extra five miles that night. Yeah, running alone at 11:00 p.m. That was safe. Then double those miles on Sunday, to make my quota.

But that was a long time ago.

I have tried running since. When my youngest two children were a toddler and an infant. First, I strapped them into a jogging stroller made for one. Then I strapped my boobs into two jog bras (because breast feeding breasts are quite unwieldy).

And we would all ramble down the graveled road like a rickshaw.

You can imagine why this activity was soon replaced with a stationary bike, then later an elliptical machine. It’s just too dang hard to run with children. What with the bundling, strapping, packing Goldfish-crackers-and-apple-juice snacks, soothing the crying newborn, you kinda forget that you’re supposed to be exercising. This was supposed to be MY time.

Several years later, I find myself wanting to run again. I have a lot of friends who run. They are pretty bad ass–and run marathons regularly. They inspire me to go running jogging. By myself. With no kids in tow.

To hear the quiet. To feel the fresh air. To sweat.

To clomp.

When is it time to lose the weight you gained during pregnancy?

Well, my “baby” just turned seven years old. Tick tock.

I’ve been yo-yo’ing these past years. And now it’s time to ditch the yo-yo. And ditch the muffin top (darn those low-waisted jeans). My muffin top runneth over…

I want to BE like Buddha. Not LOOK like Buddha.

While sitting on my six-hour flight from New York back home, I am reminded that I don’t have much idle time in my busy life. Do you?

You know. The time you take to read, or play Tap the Frog on your iPhone, or sit and stare out the window and think, or take a nap. And maybe while napping, you drool a teensy bit.

On an airplane, you’re forced to relax and just be.

The flight attendant recommends that adults first use oxygen on themselves THEN help their children. Isn’t that a metaphor for a busy family?

We parents need to take time for ourselves. Whether it’s reading or staring out the window or napping-and-drooling.

Take the time. Aren’t you worth some breaths?

Where else can you go for an hour, lie back on the cushioned chair–donning over-sized sunglasses and a paper bib–and take a nap in the middle of the day?

Where else can you listen to On the Wings of Love by Jeffrey Osborne and hear the drill buzzing through someone’s cavity in the room next door?

Except for all of the questions while your mouth is open, the dentist is pure relaxation. I wish dental hygienists would ask you as you lie down, “would you like to chit-chat today or take a little nap while I scrape and poke your teeth?”

Oh and I prefer to floss my own teeth. Having someone else do it is just…awkward.

But I like when they hand you a brand-new toothbrush, travel-sized toothpaste, and miniature dental floss. It’s like your prize. It’s kinda like going to a dental-themed kid’s birthday party and getting a goody bag!

Whether you have breasts like nectarines, onions, or butternut squash (no judgement here)–or somewhere in between–experts recommend getting a mammogram starting at age 40. Or earlier if you have a family history of breast cancer.

Here’s a good link with facts about how mammograms save lives.

Even Pippi had a mammogram just the other day.

Let me tell you, it was fun!

Well, maybe not fun fun, as in let’s-go-have-some-margaritas fun, but definitely not bad. Here’s what happens:

1. You take off your clothes on top, wipe off your deodorant, and put on a lovely gown with a snap (oh and openings on the side, so you really hang out).

2. In the imaging room, the mammogram technician helps place one of your breasts onto the platter. And you grab onto the handle while this machine smashes your breast flat as a pita, while the technician clicks an image (maybe to put on Facebook?) and tells you to hold your breath for like 3 seconds. Easy peasy.

3. Repeat on the other side. You don’t want that breast to feel left out.

4. Then you do a side breast smash for each breast. Click (say cheese).

5. Then you’re done.

6. It takes about 8 minutes for the procedure altogether. And you have the chance to chit-chat with the technician while you’re standing there with your snap unsnapped and your breasts are hanging out. #awkward

But no pain, just a little pressure. You can handle it! Schedule your mammogram today. And when you do, tell them Pippi sent you.

I took my kids to the indoor community pool yesterday. It was eye opening. I saw:

• More crack than a DEA agent
• Bodies more doughy than a doughnut shop
• Sizes resembling Fat Bastard in Austin Powers

I also saw:

• Hairy men proudly holding bald, laughing babies
• Old women in swim skirts doing power laps
• Parents testing out their newly-acquired waterproof cameras on their newly-aquatic infants

What did people think when they took a peek at me–with my unshaven legs (whoopsidaisy) and chipped toenail polish–acting loony as ever? There I was, playing dolphins with my daughter: squeaking and begging for fish. And bolting down the water slide with my youngest son on my fleshy lap. Woohoo!

Whatever.

We were all just people. All sizes and shapes. All ages. All styles. All behaviors. And we were going for it! Exercising. Splashing. Laughing.

Better than the losers simply watching from the viewing deck. Pools are for getting wet. Boo on merely spectating.

I heart power naps.

I don’t know why little children hate naps so much. Is it because they think they are missing out on the action? Or because they don’t like being told what to do?

When my kids hit 2 1/2 years of age, they decided they were done with naps. Bummer.

Well, I love a good nap. And I haven’t had a nap since…was it June? You know, the kind when you rest your head and then you pass out and you dream and you wake up drooling out of the corner of your mouth? Because you are able to shut off all the “to dos” in your life and you just don’t care for an hour?

I had one of those naps this afternoon, sans drool (too bad, because that’s half the fun). It was blissful!

After two weeks of being short on sleep, averaging five hours of sleep a night—for a gal who prefers eight hours—I was simply wiped. And turning into Crazed Honey Badger Woman.

But today was a day off for me, so I made the most of it, despite my tired-ass, drooping face. Oh and don’t you hate when your face droops from exhaustion? Oh and when people tell you “Wow, you look tired.” (More on that later.)

So here is how my day went. Played indoor soccer (football to you worldly folks) with my peeps this morning; went with youngest son to buy him a very sporty winter coat that channels bad-boy-snowboarder; lunched with my family at the gourmet restaurant Carl’s Jr.

Side note: I threw a little fit about “I ordered fried zucchini, not French fries,” and she goes, “No, you ordered fries,” and I’m like “No, I did not order fries,” and she challenges me and arguing with me and I’m like, “I’ll TRADE you my fries for the zucchini I ordered.” Sheesh. Finally got my fried zucchini with ranch and I am grateful she did not spit in them. Or did she?

Oh and then, I went on a brisk walk my husband in the pelting rain; and then…

NAP TIME!

No work deadlines to worry about (my email even said “I am out of the office today; will be back Monday”); kids were playing Xbox 360 in the other room; load of laundry humming…

I woke up refreshed and ready to take on life again. And probably ready to stay up until 2:00 a.m. again. Sometimes you just have to miss out on the action. And just maybe, you’ll lose a little bit of that Crazed-Honey-Badger-Woman-attitude. And just maybe, everyone around you will be grateful that you did.

The next time you visit the doctor’s office, ditch the big panties (knickers), eh sister?

We know that nurses love to weigh us first thing when we visit the doctor. I wonder: do they have a secret giggle when they see our reaction to the number on the scale?

Heck, I don’t care if I take an extra minute—while the nurse is WAITING—to take off my shoes before stepping onto the scale. I have very heavy shoes.

And I take off my sweater. And my belt. And my earrings. These items can weigh a few lbs. At least.  (How do you convert lbs. into metrics for my global readers? Don’t ask me. I am no math whiz). My earrings ALONE—especially my J-Lo silver hoops—can weigh several ounces (metric conversion please?)

And the large panties (knickers)? Note: Ya might want to switch the Granny Panties to something a little, uh, lighter. Maybe not a thong because those are kinda weird at your annual check-up. Right? But for sure, wear a pair of those teensy panties (knickers). They only weigh a few ounces.

I read a similar post from @MeWaistingTimeBlog.com about “Those Five Dreaded Words:” http://waistingtimeblog.com/2011/04/22/those-five-dreaded-words/

And I hate those metal, old-fashioned scales. You know, the kind with the metal blocks that move in 50 lbs. increments. And when the nurse moves them lower, you’re like, “YES!” and then when the nurse moves them higher, you’re like, “CRAP!”

But I’d rather have a metal, old-fashioned scale than a digital scale at my doctor’s visit. Because with the old-fashioned kind, there is a little room for interpretation. Digital scales don’t lie.

But secretly, you can lie to yourself that those little panties (knickers) you are wearing weigh about 15 lbs. 15 lbs. of pure sexiness!