On our own

Tonight we took advantage of Parents Night Out at Big Dog's after school program.  This is one evening a month they stay open until 10pm and for $20 per kid you can leave them and go do stuff you used to do before you became a responsible adult with kids to worry about.  Or if you're like us, you can go out to dinner and talk about the kids until it is time to pick them up.  It's awesome.

Anyhow, between Big Dog's and Little Dog's schools we get two a month, or if it's December (which it is) we could even claim a third because Little Dog's school loves us so much and is hosting an extra one next week.  So we went out to dinner tonight and we even managed to talk about things other than the boys.

I think it is important for parents to remember they are adults and their lives extend beyond the child related things that can fill our days.  It is critical that you continue to share your feelings and thoughts about important and personal topics to keep your relationship strong and healthy.  For example, Mr. Dog said he appreciated how many of the men in the restaurant were losing their hair.  He felt like he fit in.  He then confided in me that he was having a hard time coming to terms with the loss of his tresses.  To this I replied that I understood.  I am having a hard time coming to terms with the loss of my pert pre-baby boobs.  I told him that my "National Geographic" breasts depress me and I'd like my old ones back.  He made some sympathetic noises as you do when someone says such a thing, then he told me that when he reaches a certain point in his hair loss, though he did not elaborate on what point it will be, he is going to shave his head.
I looked at the two men at the bar sporting bald heads and full beards and worried a bit.  "Are you going to grow a beard?" I asked, concern filling my voice.
"No," he said.  I breathed an internal sigh of relief.
"Well," I told him, "I want a boob job."
"Why?" he asked.
"I want to make them HUGE," I said, holding my hands out in front of my chest to emphasize my ginormous imaginary breasts.  "In fact I want to replace them with t-shirt cannons. It'll be awesome."
I then simulated shooting t-shirts out of my ginormous imaginary breast, first the right, then the left, into the crowded restaurant.
After this little demonstration, Mr. Dog agreed it was a tremendously well thought out plan and indicated he was on board with my decision.
"When I shave my head, you go ahead and get your boob job," he said.  He's always encouraging me to strive to achieve my goals and dreams.  I feel fortunate to have such a supportive spouse, not everyone is so lucky.
We then discussed how well suited "t-shirt cannons" was as a euphemism for ginormous breasts, even if they don't actually shoot t-shirts.
It was all very civilized and grown up.  I don't believe we mentioned the children once in the course of this conversation.  It's so nice to get out without the kids and enjoy some adult conversation from time to time.  In fact, I'm certain my marriage is stronger for it.

Yeah, I have some work to do

One of my resolutions this year was to reduce my assprint, in other words to shape up a bit. Drop a few pounds and try to get my body back to where it once was. Upon an honest inspection of the current state of my body, I was shocked to see how sad and well, floppy, it all has become. My ass is wide enough to tattoo, to scale, a very good likeness of Mt. Rushmore. My breasts, once small and pert, seem to want to point at my footwear. Now, I know my shoes are cute, but I really don't need my breasts emphasizing this by continually indicating toward my stylish accessories. In general, my form is softer and "cottage cheesey" than I'd like it to be, so I decided to take action before I started to seriously consider a burka as a viable clothing option.

So far, I've hit a few road bumps. For example, I really like food. I do, I enjoy cooking it and eating it. I'm trying to keep it all healthy goodness, but really, I like things made with real butter. Oh, and cheese. I love that stuff, the richer, creamier more gourmet, the better. So that's one obstacle. I'm working on it, but it is a rough road when I have to get really excited about eating the more restrained diets of those who don't really LOVE food. Don't get me wrong, I'm a good cook and I know how to make the healthy stuff really tasty. The bigger problem is that I just really long for the other good stuff I know I can make that is less good for me. *sigh*
On the other hand, I did make a real effort to go back to the gym. I even signed up with a personal trainer to help get my routine to "hurt" a bit more. That's all going fine. Well, when I actually make it to the gym. I call her a "devil woman" and joke that she hates me, but that isn't really true. She's one of those tiny perky people who bounces around the gym in her tight little body telling you how to make that squat work your quads even better. Apart from the perky thing, she puts up with my wicked sense of humor, my self-deprecating jokes and my snickering at the gym obsessed types working out nearby. I don't actually mind doing the work out. I'll never be an avid gym type, simply because I hate the whole gym thing. The workout itself isn't the problem for me, I'll gladly squat and crunch and lift and step up the cardio. It is the rest of it that I loathe. What I hate is going to the gym. I hate the drive there, I hate changing into workout clothes, sweating, hell, I hate sweating, then showering afterwards. I hate spending any tiny portion of my "personal" time fighting a machine while being forced to watch my ungainly battle in the wall of mirrors opposite the flock of fitness contraptions along with a crowd of similarly occupied work out drones. It is like watching some idiotic army of not terribly lethal cardio warriors, it depresses me. And I especially hate the wiping down process as though I am so sweaty and foul that I have to remove all traces of myself from the equipment. Yet I do it religiously, and sincerely resent anyone who does not.

I'm still just barely seeing results, but something is happening. Mostly, I'm sore and cranky, but my pants are a bit looser too, so it balances out. Well for me, not for my family really, but they'll just have to cope.

At some point it will all pay off, or that is what I keep telling myself. But honestly, I keep hoping that some supernatural imp will appear and offer to give me the body of my dreams for the cost of my eternal soul. Well, maybe not my eternal soul. Maybe we could work out some compromise where I get an imperfect but passable body, but for some more reasonable price, like the loss of my little toes and half of my index finger or something. Better yet,I dream that scientists will finally discover a way to harness the calorie burning power of watching Law and Order reruns and release me from the bondage that is my "healthy lifestyle". I mean, if scientist can't do that, really, what use are they?