'...And Dirty Enough to be Happy'

I'm usually quite stiff when it comes to keeping the house clean. I sometimes have the tendency to take obsessiveness to ridiculous levels. I remember as a teen, sharing a bathroom with my two sisters. They hated having to share the bathroom with obsessive me. Everytime they would come out of the bathroom, I would bombard them with a gazillion ridiculous queries such as, 'Did you straighten the towel'? 'Did you leave any water marks on the faucet'?, 'Were you careless enough to land any droplets of water on the floor'? Now that I think about it, I don't know how my sisters put up with me. Poor souls. I'm sure that they must have been happy to be rid of me when I went away to college. Over the years, I have managed to be a little less compulsive now that I have a family, job, and house to balance- along with a few extra curricular activities that I would not bore my dear readers with. But I remember when we first got married, how my husband used to hate my constant nagging about leaving the bathroom without wiping and then polishing the faucets after washing his hands, or cleaning out a toothpaste speck on the bathroom mirror. I think I've mellowed out a bit- afterall I do live with a sack of testosterone who loves to eat medium-rare steak (cringe), watch football, and leave dirty socks on the floor. Actually I must have changed more than just a little. Right now as I sit at my laptop after dinner, sipping on a cup of tea, I am surprised to realize exactly HOW much I have changed. My laptop is sitting next to a cheese grater that should be tucked away in a drawer. My cheese grater is leaning against a 24 case of Dasani water, that should be hidden away in the cabinet, and the 24 pack of Dasani water is sitting shamelessly against a toddler sippy cup that probably needs to find its way to the dishwasher...yes, I could go on on... I am reminded of a little plate that used to sit on our living room shelf when I was a kid. I can clearly remember what it said, "My house. Clean enough to be healthy, and dirty enough to be happy'. Right now, I am standing by this saying. I am standing by this saying all the way. Now please excuse me while I put a load of socks and underwear into the washer so we have something clean to change into tomorrow. Ahem.

Child Labor

So, I am terrified of static shock. I'm not kidding. I cannot find a way to put enough emphasis on how much hatred and fear I have for static shock. This was a new phenonmemon to me. When I first landed in Salt Lake City, I was an innocent young gal who would just march up to a metal door handle and pull it open, or go up to the icecream isle at the grocery store and grab the handle with a smooth swish of the hand, and yank it open. Then reality hit me. Utah weather is dry dry dry. SO dry, infact that if you do not moisturize right after taking a shower, you will itch yourself into oblivion. I can still remember the day when the harsh reality of the static shock hit me like a hundred slaps straight on the face. I was rushing down to the Union building on campus after class and as soon as I touched the door handle, I was zapped loud enough that the person walking next to me heard it and I think we both said, 'ouch'. That was the beginning of my woes. I've never looked at a metal door handle or a grocery store freezer handle the same way! It's absurd, but the decision to buy groceries from a certain store is highly contingent upon if that store has platic or metal handles in the milk isle!! So, that's where child labor comes into play. I have found the perfect use for my toddler son. He LOVES to open doors to freezers in dessert and milk isles at the grocery store. Al I have to do is hold him up to the handle. It works perfectly unless I happen to make a quick stop at the store while my son is napping at home. PLEASE SMITH'S and COSTCO!! Switch your metal door handles with plastic ones. I will love you forever!

The joys of being a mom

(This happened a few nights ago).
Time: must have been around 3:00am.
Me: (putting my arms around my sound asleep baby) 'Ashar, Baat suno' (translation: 'Hey Ashar, listen..')
Ashar: (I wasn't expecting he would say anything in his deep sleep) 'Kya'? (translation: 'What'?)
Me: 'I love you, Ash'.
Ashar: (Still asleep) 'I love you...mamma'.
!!!!!
I melted like butter melts in the microwave.
SIGH.

I am ready to paint the town RED.

I know that I've been neglecting my blog, and my blog probably hates me for being such a delinquent writer. I barely have any time to spare during the day. And when I do have the time, I suddenly get hit by the worst case of ‘writer’s block’. You would think that I would have plenty to write about. Yet, when it boils down to putting my fingers on the keyboard and sliding out a ritzy story about some very exciting (not) daily occurrence, I freeze. I don't think what I have to say would whip up much amusement for my readers.

I’ll give you an example of a full blown exhilarating episode extracted from the memoirs of my mundane routine: So my two year old threw up after eating too much chocolate. Yes the adrenaline rush was intense as I rushed to grab some paper towel and wipe away the mess and bathe my son, but I'm sure my readers would much rather read about other interesting things than indulge in a story of a soiled towel and bath times that involve rubber duckies and nursery rhymes....? Yes? Yes. Okay, so my suspicions have been confirmed.

I guess I could talk about my new red hair. I've always been the one to admire red highlights from afar, but never been bold enough to apply the gorgeous red streaks to my own hair until now... I finally decided to take the plunge and go red. I must admit, I did have a moment or two of doubt after the hair stylist was done blow drying my hair. Holy bloody Mary! And ‘Bloody Mary’ is right! My hair was… lets say… well, delicately put, it could have landed me a role as an extra in some movie that involved disturbed young adults with problems of drug overdoses and serious addictions to tattoo parlors and body piercings. I should have taken advantage of the situation, sported a few fake tattoos of torn bloody hearts on my arm and made my way outside some smoky and very questionable places in some very questionable areas of the town. I could have then asked (with a glazed expression) whoever I saw that if they knew the end of the world was near. I chose to go home, cook dinner and do laundry instead. I guess I had my chances. A few washes have left my hair a more socially acceptable shade of caramel. I am now ready to play the role of an evil spinster who hoards napkins and plastic forks from fast food restaurants.

Let's pump some iron, shall we?

So, it’s been well over a year since I was last within the compounds of a gym. It’s a sad thing, I know. This weekend, I finally convinced myself that I needed to exercise. My theory about working out is that the most challenging part of keeping up with a workout regimen is first getting to the place of workout- which in most cases, is the gym. Once you get there, you have the choice of either sitting around and looking like an idiot, or doing the obvious: moving those limbs! So, that’s exactly what I did this weekend. I made my way to the gym, and I moved those lazy limbs. I really did move them! A normal person with any ounce of common sense would have taken it slow. A normal person would have realized that a year is a long time. A normal person would also have said, 'lets lift the five pound dumbbells today and slowly build my way back up to the 10, the 15, and then the 20-pounders'. Not 'me! As soon as I stepped into the weight room (following my brief stint on the treadmill), I made my way to the weight tree and reached straight for the 20 pound dumbbells (were these always this heavy?). And I thought I looked good with my 20-pounders, until I actually lifted them in an effort to work those non-existent muscles. Ouch! Ahem. I quickly scanned the room to make sure no one had witnessed my failed attempt at what should have been a swift movement of the arm, into a victorious bicep curl! I promptly decided to downgrade to a ten pound pair (yes I know, that’s downgrading by 50%. Shut up). I ended up following the same routine I used to follow a year ago, except- I cut the reps in half, the weights in half, and the movements to quick jerky jolts as opposed to slow and steady, well balanced moves. I know- it's pretty lame.

The result of a day at the gym you ask? My legs ache when I climb up the stairs, my arms scream in agony every time I lift so much as a shoulder bag, and don’t even think about telling me a joke. My stomach muscles are greatly offended every time I laugh. Damn those oblique crunches!

California, Benadryl and Delta (Part one).

All of a sudden I am reminded of a time when my husband went to California for a ten day training. I was left alone with a ten month old who was going through one of the most difficult phases of his life to date: separation anxiety. He was perpetually stuck to me. Since daddy was out of town, he had also decided that he needed to go on some sort of hunger strike to demonstrate his disapproval of his daddy being MIA (missing in action). I was lucky if I could get away for a shower break, or even a bathroom break. He screamed uncontrollably in the most annoying of all manners if I put him down for even a second. And then his baby sitter went on vacation. A sweet friend of mine volunteered to watch him while I went to work. I don’t know how I survived those ten days. They felt like ten years, if not more. In the mornings, I had to trick him into leaving him with my friend. I guess he stopped crying when he realized that mommy was indeed gone, but started crying as soon as he saw me again when I went to pick him up after work. He cried in the car, at home, and before he went to bed. And the shrieking! Oh! The shrieking! And he refused to eat a single bite. We were a picture of disaster. A shrieking baby that whined and cried and refused to eat, and an exhausted mother, worried sick about her child and stopping short of pulling out all her hair.

On the eleventh daddy-less day, I along with my ten month old were to board the wonderful Delta flight that would miraculously transport the suffering mother-son duo to California and into the waiting arms of my dear husband who would rescue both my baby and I from our distress. I had planned on shedding a bucket full of tears upon seeing my husband. I imagined him standing there Zorro-like(our savior), at the airport ready to comfort us both! He would tell us that it was okay. He would take my ten month old from me and give my arms a much needed break. And my ten month old upon seeing his daddy would ask for a giant helping of apple sauce with a side of mashed bananas and start eating again! Sigh. There were still a few hurdles to overcome before I could achieve that blissful arm resting state. My first hurdle came in the form of a bottle of Benadryl (Oh who would have even imagined!). My son’s pediatrician had advised me to give a little dose of the miracle drug to my shrieking ball of crying cuteness. She eyed him varily during the entire hour long (pre California) office visit where my son cried uncontrollably and refused to be touched by anything foreign which included a concerned pediatrician’s hand and a stethoscope. “How long has this been going on"? She asked. “What"? I asked fighting back tears of fatigue and self pity. “The crying and the refusal to eat"? asked the doctor. “Oh- after my husband left for his training...a little more than a week” I replied, willing myself not to cry. “And how are you coping with all of this"? asked the doctor. Shut up! I sighed inwardly. You are not my shrink. Leave me alone! Don’t show me any concern. I don’t do well with concern at delicate moments such as these! Don’t….and then it happened. The tears came tumbling down, in monstrous, foolish gushes. Alas! The bucket full of tears that I had been saving for my husband came out at a very awkward moment indeed! No worries. I was sure there would be plenty more tears for my husband to see! Sheesh!

On the day of departure, my aunt dropped us off at the airport and the Delta baggage crew swiftly handed me the baggage tags and went about their business. I bent over to pick up my carry-on luggage, with my ten month old still attached to my hip (I might as well have super glued him there), and still crying, as had become the norm at this point. And what did I see as I reached out for my carry-on luggage?! I saw a pink fountain of sticky, gooey substance run down my back, neck, handbag, clothes and also onto my crying ten month old! At that point, my baby started to cry even louder, although I never thought that was even remotely possible. I swung around, furiously searching for the culprit who would dare mess with a woeful mother and her crying baby! Who would play such an evil trick! I was greeted by about 20 pair of disapproving eyes directed towards …ME?! The bottle of Benadryl that I had religiously remembered to pack into my bag, as per the pediatrician’s request had somehow tipped over from over my shoulder bag, and onto me, my baby, and over everything else that I was about to carry onto the plane. A Delta baggage crew member handed me a box of Kleenex, hoping to be quickly rid of the pink, sticky, loud and messy exhibition, so he could focus on the very composed and neatly dressed elderly couple who were next in line.

Once on the plane, I had nothing to soothe my ten month old with. We were both a crazy, sticky mess and there was absolutely NO Benadryl! I also tried my ever so best to keep my sticky self and baby as far away from the poor passenger who had the misfortune to be seated next to us, as possible. And of course my son cried during the entire plane ride. I expected nothing less of him.

I dream of clear glowing skin and the desire to HAVE the desire for wheat germ.

So every now and then, I go through these weird cycles where I make a silent vow to myself that I will eat healthy, exercise and consume my 64 ounces of H2O. I was reading an article about a certain celebrity who is known for her gorgeous skin, sparkling eyes, glossy hair, and abs sharp enough to use as a carving knife. She talked about her diet of goat food(green leaves), combined with a diet of bird food (seeds and such), and lots of water. So, fueled with a burning optimism for an overnight lifestyle overhaul, I stop by at the local grocery store after work, and like a woman fueled by a mission, roll my cart military style, down aisle after aisle of grains and nuts and leaves. I even make a quick stop at 'Wild Oats' to stock up on Biotin, and raw organic oats...AND essential eucalyptus oil to sooth the soul. Because after all, a relaxed mind and meditation go hand in hand with good diet and exercise, right? As soon as I get home, I burn some eucalyptus oil, throw in a soft relaxing CD, and start making a salad. I then sigh, dreamy eyed as the soothing smell of eucalyptus starts to fill the kitchen, and the bowl of salad starts filling up with a bright colorful display of wholesome healthy goodness. 'Yes, lets throw in the walnuts...Omega 3, great! A handful of carrots...carotene, awesome! Spinach...a good source of iron, beautiful!'....and then...I am suddently reverted back to reality as my 2 year old comes into the kitchen shrieking, and making an assortment of demands which I try to meet, but all in vain. As I scoop him up and make my way to the bedroom, I notice a half eaten salad on the kitchen counter! 'There is always tomorrow', I say trying to console myself.

So dear friends...today was a start of a beautiful new day. I woke up early and during my morning commute to work, made a hasty stop at the nearest Starbucks for a Grandé Mocha, and a ginormous slice of chocolate hazelnut cake. That's what I call a healthy lifestyle overhaul, people!