Scale of Truth - Week 6

Meet Kate, my new personal trainer:

Believe it or not Kate used to be a real fatty after she had her son.

I was having some big trouble getting over the hump and decided it was time for some professional help. Losing weight at 34 is a hell of a lot harder than it was at 22.

I asked around and the word on the street was that Kate is the best of the best. And looking at my naked body I knew I needed someone who means business. Or a bull dozer.

The first thing we did is sit down so she could learn a little more about why I was there. I mean, other than the obvious - that my belly button is down to my ankles and my thighs look like I just got pelted with a bunch of paintballs.

Kate: So what are you hoping to accomplish?

Me: Well, see this here? *grabs two handfuls of skin on stomach* I'd prefer my stomach not to look like it's melting.

Kate: *writes something down* No problem. Okay, let's talk about nutrition. How would you say your diet is?

Me: Compared to what?

Kate: Well, what did you have for breakfast this morning?

Me: (thinking) lie lie lie, make something up. Don't tell her you had a bowl of pancake batter.

A bowl of pancake batter.

Kate: Just pancake batter?

Me: Well no, silly, there was butter and syrup in there too. Oh and I had a Slim Fast shake.

Kate: Hmmmm. *writes something down* Okay, now let's get some measurements.

She handed me a device that looked like an XBox controller and told me to hold it so it could read my body fat.

It said 32.5.

Me: Is that good or bad?

Kate: Well, let's see where you fall on the chart.

There were six categories on the chart: Excellent, very good, average, poor, very poor, and dude what the fuck.

You can guess which category I fell into.

Me: Well, I'm almost in the very poor section.

Kate: (moving her finger down) yeah, if you were a 54-year-old woman. Don't worry - you'll soon be a lean, mean fighting machine.

So the work out ensued and I have to say it was the fastest hour I've ever worked out in my life. Usually when I'm on the treadmill I am literally counting the seconds until my four minutes is up. But Kate and I talked and laughed and, dare I say it, I even had fun.

Even though I do recall telling her that I hated her evil soul from hell and I hope she dies a horrible death on the way home when I was doing some plank hand slap thing. I can't help it - I get angry sometimes when I work out.

I'm totally going to give her some props here - if you're interested in hooking it up with Kate you can check out her website or shoot her an email. Her site also has some recipes that I may get the courage to try someday. I didn't see anything about pancake batter which makes me a little skeptical, though.

The first session is free, and you can do group sessions or hit up her boot camp class on Saturdays.

I had some good workouts last week, both with Kate and on the treadmill getting ready for my 5K this Saturday. So I'm down a total of 5 1/2 pounds.


5 1/2 down, 13 to go.

Oh, and I'm switching the scale of truth to once a month instead of once a week. So don't give me any flack when you don't see it there next Monday.

I know how you people are.


Yesterday morning I hosted a last-minute play date at my house. I found out I was hosting said play date at the mid-way point of a three mile walk with my daughters when I got a text that the original host's daughter was sick.

I typed a text that we could have it at my house and had just hit 'send' when I glanced at my watch and realized it was starting in 45 minutes. Once I removed the brown paper bag from my face I told myself it would be ok and my house could pass for clean as long as no one turned on the lights or used the bathroom.

"I wonder what kind of kid-friendly snack I can make out of Chex Mix and blue cheese?" I thought as I turned my walk into a run, clutching my chest with one hand and pushing a double stroller up a hill with the other.

It was only me and two other Moms - my Fussy Friend Stacey and her next door neighbor, Andi. Somehow Andi and I were talking about where I used to live, and we discovered that Nick and I lived next door to Andi and her husband a few years ago when we lived in a condo.

Andi: What number did you live in?

Me: 1668.

Andi: NO WAY! We lived in 1664!

Me: Wow... what a coincidence!

Andi: What a small world! *Furrows brow and looks pensively at sky, eyes light up as she suddenly remembers something* Wait a minute. Did you have a cat that got out once?

Me: No, well unless you count that one time he fell 30 feet off the deck.

Andi: Are you SURE you didn't have a cat that got out? Maybe when someone showed up at 5am to ask you to turn the music down?

Aw hell.

I looked again at her face and my mind flashed back five years ago to when I had employed a new tactic of pumping myself up for work by listening to hair metal full throttle on my sound system. I would do high knees and shadow box in front of my full-length mirror yelling things at my reflection like "DON'T STOP BELIEVIN'!" and "YOUTH GONE WILD!"

Nick was actually the one who encouraged this ritual; when I told him I thought the music was too loud and the neighbors could hear he pointed out that we've never heard anything come from their side of the wall so the walls must be sound proof.

I know now that was because they were just good neighbors.

Well, one day I had a really big and important meeting and I needed to really hair it up to go the distance. I was just finding my groove when I heard a knock at the door.

Me: Nick! Someone's at the door!

Nick: Well answer it!

Me: I can't! I'm naked! I can't do high knees with clothes on!

Nick: Fine.

He walked downstairs while I grabbed my robe and hid behind a plant at the top of the stairs. I knew I was in big trouble.

He opened the door to a bleary-eyed woman in her bathrobe as well, who politely asked us to turn down the music. It was 5am, after all. Just as she finished her sentence our cat made a mad dash out the door, discovered it was raining, turned around and bolted back in and Nick slammed the door in her face.

We just stood there and looked at each other for a second, knowing that girl just got a face full of knocker.

Me: Open the door and apologize!

Nick: Nah, we'll never see her again.

And we didn't. Oh, wait, that is until that one time our kids are in a play group together every week and I've been busting my ass trying to play it cool to get the other Moms to like me.

The good news is that she told me that we left an apology letter in her mailbox. Which I have no recollection of but I'm taking her word for it.

Well, all's well that ends well at least that's where the story ends.

Oh wait, except for the part about how I found out she's married to the son of Nick's mentor... his old boss... the man personally responsible for Nick's entire career.

The end.

Happy 200th Post!

Last night my Fussy Friend Stacey and I went to see Bob Saget do stand up.

She is my Fussy Friend because she will ask the waitress eight times if she's SURE they're out of lemon cake, then send her on an hour-long vision quest into the kitchen to find out whether or not the crust of the apple tart had any nuts of any kind even touching it while it was in the kitchen. She's not allergic or anything - just fussy.

Satisfied with the waitress's dissertation on the start to finish construction of the apple tart starting with its life in the orchard, she orders it, takes one bite, hates it, and then eats my cheese.

She is from New York.

I was excited to go, mainly because the show was in the casino I was not allowed to enter two weeks ago because I was "visibly drunk", whatever that means.

Well, ok, we all know what that means.

I wondered if the bouncer would recognize me sober and feel awful that he didn't permit someone of my stature and poise into his gambling establishment. I would publicly shame him and tell him that no, I will not spend my hard earned money, err, Nick's hard earned money in this filthy arm pit stenched room and he will regret the day he kicked ME out of his casino as everyone within earshot stops in their tracks to chant my name and high five me as I walk away doing the dance to Beyonce's All the Single Ladies.

We were running late and so we decided to valet. Of course when the valet finally made his way to our car we found out that we had to be Triple Fly Supersonic Five Comet members to valet that night. Apparently the old balls with the walker crawling out of the '82 Buick held together with duck tape in front of us had lost enough money in this casino to qualify for valet parking.

With five minutes before show time, we entered the parking garage to find it was completely full and at least three cars were in front of us circling like vultures looking for a spot. This sort of situation makes me extremely anxious for two reasons:

1. I hate being late, especially to something I've paid for, and
2. I become extremely agitated in situations that involve fairness and taking turns.

It seriously takes me weeks to get over someone butting in line, or, even worse, when I've been waiting and the bartender serves someone who just walks up. Europeans are really bad at taking turns and when I was living in Europe I would be waiting patiently in line for the subway, minding my own business. The train would pull up and I would scream "manners... MANNERS!!" as the German business men would elbow me aside once the doors opened to make sure they get a seat on the empty car.

So I knew this situation in the parking garage was either going to make or break my night.

Luckily we found a spot, and arrived five minutes late. Just enough time for me to score a couple of drinks while Stacey held our spots.

"What would you like?" I asked her.

"Oh... I don't want to be fussy. How about... ummm..."

*me looking at my watch and tapping my foot*

"Ummm... just something simple. Vodka pineapple."

*judgmental stare*

"Too fussy?"

*judgmental stare*

"Ok... well then... how about a vodka collins?"

I have no earthly idea what a vodka collins is. All I know is that it came with a cherry and if you were to order something like that in Sedalia it's grounds for a wedgie.

Oh wait, I take that back. I DO know one more thing about a vodka collins. It's what my then 15-year-old sister got very drunk on at my first wedding.

Point and case.

I was disappointed with the show but what I was NOT disappointed in was my seat neighbor and his little friend.

I swear to God that he sat there, for an hour and a half, completely stone faced with one exception. He smiled and raised his hand when when Bob Saget asked the crowd if anyone liked the movie Titanic.

Hot blooded

Hey parents! Wanna hear a quick way to find out if your body is able to withstand a massive heart attack? It's easy. Just take your child's temperature and if the first three numbers are 105, see if the crushing pains radiating through your chest cavity are enough to kill you.

Yesterday started out like any other day. Lila was upstairs asleep in a Benadryl-induced coma because, you know, her nose hasn't stopped running since December.

Ellie and I were outside and I was busy inspecting her work, explaining to her that if she didn't pull the weeds at the root she would just have to do it all over again in a couple of months and she really needed to finish up so she could move on to the mulch. She had been a little irrationally fussy but I thought that was just because her back was starting to hurt from dragging the yard waste bags around to the front.

Realizing we were pushing the limits of child labor laws, I decided it was time to bring her in for a snack. Besides, the Benadryl had worn off and the baby monitor was broadcasting Lila's cries for food across the neighborhood.

I gave Ellie a healthy snack of frosted animal crackers and Pop Tarts and started fixing a bottle for the screaming baby when I noticed Ellie was violently shivering at the table.

Shift to panic mode.

I laid Lila on the floor, put both of her hands on either side of the bottle and said, "It's now or never girl," hoping by some miracle of nature she would magically figure out how to feed herself while I investigated what's up with Ellie.

"It's your only hope to avoid starvation!" I yelled over my shoulder as I ran away and heard the bottle hit the floor.

Meanwhile, Ellie was still shivering uncontrollably as I grabbed her and rushed upstairs to take her temperature. As she was laying on the changing table her eyes started to flutter and it looked like she was fighting to stay conscious as the thermometer continued to climb. 102, 103, 104, 105... I didn't wait to see how much further it went before I yanked it out of her netherlands and grabbed my phone.

Shift to freak the fuck out mode.

In hindsight, calling Nick and scream/crying "Ellie is on the verge of death" when he picked up the phone might have been a poor choice of words. Both for Nick and for Ellie's sake. But I wanted some company in freak the fuck out mode.

Long story short, a few doses of Motrin, a couple cold baths and a visit to the doctor later, we have no idea what it was or what caused it but her fever was gone by midnight and this morning it's like nothing ever happened.

Well, except for the fact that half my hair is now gray and the other half fell out.

Now the real joy of having two kids kicks in - I will not rest until someone else is sick.

The wait

Me (upon entering restaurant): How's your wait?

Restaurant Hostess: Excuse me?

Me: Your wait, how is it?

Restaurant Hostess: *blank stare*

Me: *expectant stare*

Restaurant Hostess: *blank stare*

Me: *hungry stare*

Restaurant Hostess: *mad stare*

Me: *scared stare*

Restaurant Hostess: Why would you ask me something like that?

Me: Ummm... I don't know...uhhh... I guess... huh?

Restaurant Hostess: I mean, how did you know I was trying to lose weight?

Me: Am I being punked? I was talking about your double you, aaaay, eye, tee.

Restaurant Hostess: Oooooh right! Yeah. Twenty minutes.

Me: And by the way you totally don't need to lose any weight.

Restaurant Hostess: Actually a table just opened up - right this way.

Scale of truth - week 5


So it's doubtful that I'll be making it to the gym today, due to the fact that Tonya Harding just ice skated by our front window. This really puts a crimp in my day because I was planning on hitting Wal-Mart this morning. I heard they now carry organic meat, which probably means the squirrels were all hit on local roads. Also we only have one diaper left in Ellie's size and are completely out of Diet Dr. Pepper which is bad news for everyone.

Anyhoo, I had to take this week's pic of the scale of truth on my home scale, which I didn't want to do because I don't know if it measures heavier or lighter than the scale at the gym. But at least this way I get to do it naked. I actually was able to zoom in the camera with my nipple, which will come in handy if I'm ever taking a picture while eating a sub sandwich. If you've ever been curious about what John Goodman looks like naked, just feel free to swing by my bathroom while I take my weekly shower.

In other news, Ellie, Lila and I woke up this morning with the not-so-distant memory that last night our trio almost became a duo via shot putting the baby out the front door.

We are firm believers in getting babies to sleep through the night by crying it out. It worked with Ellie and it worked a few months ago with Lila.

However... on Friday she got some shots

and she woke up Friday night around midnight with a fever and all sorts of what I can only imagine pain in her little leg.

So after an hour of wailing I broke down and gave her a bottle, thus initiating a cycle of suck.

Rule #1 in letting babies cry it out is don't kill the baby. Rule #2 is don't, under any circumstances, feed the baby. Babies are sort of like little mogwai but turn into something much more terrifying than a gremlin if you break the rules.

But she looked so pathetic and I broke down, knowing that highness would expect to be served a warm tasty bottle in bed hereafter.

Saturday night she wailed for two hours before I finally broke down again. It was either the bottle or me.

Last night she wailed for THREE hours. Three hours may not seem like a really long time in fun terms. True Grit was a very enjoyable (nearly) three hour experience. If you were to go to an amusement park for three hours you'd feel jipped because the time was so short.

But a baby crying for three straight hours is enough time to get you out of many criminal charges.

The last time I looked at the clock was 3:11, which I remember because it also happened to be one of my favorite college bands. Then I started thinking about college and how I never once wanted to stuff a sock in anyone's mouth.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to go try to fashion a diaper out of some duck tape and a Target bag because I think Ellie just laid waste to the last of our Pampers.



It is difficult to describe, with human words, anyway, what it's like to be trapped in a house for six days with two kids, one of them sick.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I have left the house, breathed fresh air, sat in a vehicle, spoken face to face with other human beings, three times in six days.


We were on our way home from a happy hour, err, play date last Friday night when I noticed Ellie had a really runny nose. A runny nose that transformed into a rock star of a cold, setting up permanent residence in her little sinuses.

The first couple of days weren't that bad. Two of the three times I left the house were over the weekend, when we went out to brunch and then on Sunday out of sheer boredom drove up to the airport to watch the planes take off. It was fun until a cop without much of a sense of humor made us leave.

Even Monday was tolerable. It was just me and the girls and we hung out at home, catching up on my stories and eating frozen pizzas.

Tuesday started to get a little sketchy. I was able to recite all four the four Baby Einstein DVDs we had been rotating word for word but the house had never been cleaner.

Wednesday I regretted the day I was born. I knew every inch of the house and it knew me. I swear I heard voices coming out of the carpet begging me to take a shower. I hadn't showered since Monday; there was no need. I'm pretty sure I had been hosting a small family of critters in my leg hair for the past week and quite frankly they were the most interesting thing I had going for me at this point.

I was completely trapped - I couldn't take Ellie anywhere for fear of her spreading her germs to innocent bystanders. Also the look in her sick little eyes was one that required nothing but home lovin' and an excessive amount of Baby Einstein.

At this point I had taken up residence in the window sill, stroking my beard while looking out the window begging God to let Nick's car to pull into the driveway. Everyone I called could only talk for brief periods of time because of their "jobs". Since when did I befriend such responsible losers?

Today, however, I was fortunate enough to have my mother-in-law watch the girls for a couple of hours while I went to the St. Louis Women in Media luncheon. As I backed out of the driveway, dusting the cob webs off my dashboard, I breathed new life. I rolled down my window and saw trees without the barrier of a glass window pane. I breathed air not circulated through our dusty vents. I ate from a buffet that did not serve peanut butter or goldfish crackers.

And it was glorious.

I guess what I'm saying is I may not make it. Please send Taco Bell.

The good egg


This morning while talking to my sister Beth:

Beth: I just spent $74 on gas!

Me: Holy cow - how many gallons is your tank?

Beth: Well I also bought some beer.

Me: Of course you did.

Beth: And some lotto tickets.

Me: Why do you waste your money on that junk?

Beth: Because I truly believe, deep down in my heart, that I'm going to win. I don't need to win the mega millions or anything. I just need about 2 - 3 million to get by.

Me: Sure you do.

Beth: And I pray to God about it, and tell him that I should win because I'll do good things with it. I mean, I'm not going to teach blind kids to ride horses or anything, but I'll buy Mimi her hair do every few months. I'll be generous.

Me: You're a good egg.

Beth: Yeah.

Scale of truth - week 4

Until last night I thought the worst sound in the world was picking up the phone to hear your Mother saying "It's been almost two days... why haven't you called? I guess you're too busy with your own life now to think about your poor MOTHER!"

But I was wrong.

The worst sound in the world is your two children engaging in a well choreographed 3am symphony of hacking, sneezing, sniffling and pitiful moaning.

"Better them than me, though," I thought, rolling over and going back to sleep.

Long story short, I'm not going to be the asshole who brings a couple of kids dripping with snot into the gym nursery. Seriously, every time Ellie sneezes a baby python flies out of her nostril.

So the scale of truth is postponed until I can safely take these little vectors back out in public.

In the meantime, if anyone would like to stop by and keep me company, please do so. Really... please. Or at least send burritos. If I'm not getting on the scale today I might as well make the most of it.

However, to satisfy your thirst for looking at someone else's weight, please allow me to introduce Elizabeth:

Elizabeth's hobbies include traveling, photography, underestimating the amount of time she has to do something, and making me feel like a big ole blimp because she's starting at a weight I will have to starve myself over a period of years to achieve.

And in case you were wondering Kim DID get kidnapped in the night by a group of banshees. At least that's what she told me when I asked her for the 100th time if she was returning to the scale of truth.

Flash back


Nick: You're not actually going to let her out of the house like that.

Me: The '80s are making a comeback!

Nick: It looks like you bought that at Gloria Estefan's garage sale.

Me: That's a big insult coming from someone wearing two different colored socks.

Nick: The rhythm is gonna getcha.

Big Tits

Today in the Target check out:

Ellie: I see tits.

Me (praying): Are you there, God? It's me, Hannah. I swear on everything that is holy that I will give 20 dollars to the next homeless person I see if you just make this go away.

God: Bitch, please. You are so full of shit. Like the time you "promised" you would go to college to teach little blind kids if I just got you one 12-pack of beer for your prom.

Me: Uh...

God: Or the time you told me you would bring flowers to the old women in the nursing home every Sunday for a year if that cop didn't take you to jail for peeing behind a dumpster.

Me: Well...

God: In fact, now that I think about it... I owe you some payback. It's about to get ugly up in this motherfucker.

Me: No, please -

Ellie (turning around and pointing at the large woman behind us in line): I see tits. Big tits!

Me: Uh gosh... I have no idea what she's talking about but I'm sure she doesn't mean...


Woman: *crosses arms*

Everyone in northern hemisphere: *gathers round and judges*

Me: *digs in purse for keys while wondering if I have a large enough line of credit to catch the next flight to Fiji and hopes man behind counter makes sure my girls brush their teeth each night before bed*


Me (noticing big Easter picture of some chicks on the wall): OH... CHICKS! *jumps on conveyor belt and cups hands around mouth* HEY EVERYONE! She means CHICKS! Oh no... lady please get off your phone and stop crying! She meant CHICKS! CHIIIIIIICKS!

Cashier: Would you like your receipt with you or in the bag?

Me: With me. I'll be using the bag to cover my head.