Tony Perkis is not my homeboy.

Standard

I can’t move my legs.

cce5bb94648ccca290f6fbb53aac10fc

No, that’s not it.

My legs are moving all by themselves.

As in, they’re shaking.

217f29436ba5294f32983b2122db61f4

I can’t pee because I’m terrified I won’t be able to get up off the toilet. Nick’s going to come home to wild children and find me stuck on the porcelain throne.

c0ddd61000a56fc48787cc515f094f09

Leg day just kicked my butt.

c2d19f86d3abcbd605d5a69b364efcbc.jpg

Once upon a time, I was fit.

In fact, I worked out with a trainer 3 days a week, not including the other 2 or 3 days I spent at the gym with the hubs or by myself. I was strong. I was toned. I could do cardio without fainting. I had a goal: get super fit and super strong so the next time I got pregnant, I’d last longer before my muscles and stamina atrophied away.

Best shape of my life.

Flash-forward 14 months: I’ve got an adorable, perfect baby, and the body of a limp sea cucumber.

I mean, it’s not Jabba the Hut over here, but there’s definitely more squish than there was before. My pencil skirts are riding a lot higher.

So, I’ve been taking my kiddos to the park a few days a week to exercise with another neighborhood mom. She’s awesome. I’m pathetic.

Today, four of us mothers worked out, one of which is a fitness instructor at local gyms and brought a game plan. A leg game plan.

I still remember the feeling when it was all over and I looked at my baby in the car seat and realized I still had to haul her up the hill to the car.

giphy.gif

I hurt.

6655bd751fc1180173dba68ee09e7cf2

Somebody call my husband and warn him not to expect dinner tonight. I’d call but my phone’s across the room. Let’s hope there’s no zombie apocalypse in the near future. I’d be a goner.

Tomorrow is going to be worse. I can’t wait.

Remember the aforementioned pencil skirts? Or those jeans I’m trying to wear sans muffin-top? Meh.

253840674126542d6f782b88ee627e57

love,

the moaning noodle stuck to the couch.

 

Advertisements

The Lasering of the HooHas

Standard

Yes, this post is probably too-much-information. But, dear readers, the world needs to be warned.

Hooha SPAANB

Once upon a time, *someone* (eh-ehm) saw a killer Groupon deal for laser hair removal. Though it took some minor sisterly manipulation, she managed to convince her two sisters to join her in an adventure. The three of them then scheduled their appointments for “the lasering of the hoohas.” Yep. Go big or go home.

Each sister had the same procedure, the same number of follow-up visits, and received the same advice and instructions. However, each had a very different experience. In order to protect the not-so-innocent, names will not be assigned to each hilarious tragic mishap. Hopefully our combined lessons-learned will save you from an equally humiliating memory.

If you laser your hooha . . . 

. . . remember that you only need to undress from the waist down. When the technician comes in and seems surprised at your state of complete undress, then has to ask you twice for clarification on what exactly you want lasered, you will eventually realize where you went wrong. In this sister’s defense, there was a modesty towel provided that appeared to be meant for whole torso cover-up, which seemed like enough cover at the time.

If you did indeed strip completely . . .

. . . don’t admit it to your sisters. Who then gossip and giggle about it with their technicians. Like a bunch of nosy old ladies at the hair salon.

If they tell you to shave everything the day before your appointment . . .

. . . they mean EVERYTHING. Because when that laser beams upon a not-quite-so-shaven spot in your nethers that you probably didn’t even know existed, it will hurt like the dickens. The DICKENS, I tell you. You will see stars. Galaxies. Undiscovered universes.

If you have a known skin sensitivity . . . 

. . . mention this to the technician BEFORE you slather on the numbing cream. You might break out in a severe rash. There are other options. Like ice. Or a strip of leather hide between your gritted teeth.

If you think you might have a severe skin reaction . . .

. . . don’t schedule a date for that night. Or any of the next 5 nights. And we come from a traditional, religious family, so this has nothing to do with sex. I’m just talking about normal functioning in front of the opposite gender. Walking, sitting, getting in and out of cars . . . all things that will make you move like the zombie in “Hocus Pocus” if your crotch is on fire. Even with a best-case-scenario and a high tolerance for pain, your date will at the very least think you’re constipated.

If you do have both a severe skin reaction and an unfortunate date planned that night . . .

. . . don’t wear tight pants. This should be common sense. Apparently us sisters aren’t always running on all cylinders in the common sense department.

If you break out in a severe rash . . .

. . . don’t wait 3 days to see the doctor. That’s just 3 days of unnecessary discomfort. “Discomfort” is probably putting it mildly.

If the doctor tells you to put “Di-syn-et? Des-ri-tyme? Da-resi-tin?” on it . . . 

. . . he means Desitin. Which is diaper-rash cream. Which you can buy at the grocery store. Or borrow from your sister’s diaper-bag. But you probably should have asked the doctor to clarify this when you were confused so it didn’t take you an extra day to receive relief.

If you need Desitin, like immediately . . .

. . . find a bathroom to lather yourself. Don’t do it in a car, without tinted windows, in the mall parking lot. Especially with your sister cracking up and making a scene in the next seat.

If you can’t sleep at night because your lady bits are on fire . . . 

. . . try turning up your ceiling fan to full blast and strip down to a half-birthday suit. Then sprawl out on top of your covers. I’ve heard this helps.

And finally, If you did indeed suffer from a severe, toe-curling allergic reaction . . . 

. . . DON’T USE THE DANG NUMBING CREAM AT YOUR NEXT APPOINTMENT! It shouldn’t have to take you a few sessions to realize that the cream was your fatal mistake.

So ladies, if you’ve been contemplating taking the Brazilian laser plunge, please take a moment to truly internalize any possible ramifications. Hedge your bets, and prepare.

Maybe pre-purchase some diaper cream. Just in case.

Black Weekend

Standard

20150727_103708

My husband’s family has this story. It’s called “Black Sabbath.” Story goes, one particular Sunday when hubby was a kid and visiting his grandparents up in Utah, EVERYTHING went wrong. They called it “Black Sabbath” because multiple trips to various stores to fix a slew of catastrophes meant that that particular Sabbath day wasn’t observed as intended.

Well folks, let me tell you about “Black Weekend.” Hubby and I decided to take the kids up north (north eastern Arizona area) to a family cabin and invited our best friends to drive down from Utah and join us. While there, we had the best time! Instead of being sick and dehydrated and hot and fainting (as I am while pregnant), I was actually doing pretty great! Sure I wasn’t my normal self, and sure I needed to lay down often. But we were out of the heat, chillin in beautiful country with great company, making fantastic memories, great conversation… all in all: WONDERFUL.

Except.

Everything else went terribly wrong.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? We decided to leave immediately after hubby got home from work Thursday evening, which left packing up (food, camp supplies, clothing, bedding, gear, etc.) to me. Normally, this is not a problem. With pregnant me, this is a problem. Yes, there were emotional and physical break downs. Finally, one groin strain later, a light-headed puke-y me pulls daddy’s big truck loaded to the gills out of the garage aaaaaand… KA-LUNK. Broken garage door. Sh&#%.

I manage to manually get the garage door shut and head over to my parents’ to hitch up a flat-bed trailer with an all-terrain “Ranger” vehicle loaded on it. There were issues there as well. I had to pull up the truck with 2 wheels on the sidewalk just to get the damn trailer hitch high enough to hitch. Hence: a good 45 minutes sprawled out on my parents’ couch with a tall glass of water to recover.

Hubby arrives, helps hitch up where I failed, and we’re on our way! Yay! Cool weather and friends here we come!

Picture this: it’s night time, on a very twisty, wind-y road switchbacking down a canyon, and the truck starts to rattle. Big time. “Is it the road? Hmmm….”  A mile later a whoosh alerts us to the fact that we’re screwed. Trailer tire completely stripped and blown out. Oh wait, where’s the fender? Yeah, that’s gone too, including the trailer lights on that side.

20150723_204636

Hubby to the rescue! Wait, where’s the trailer-tire sized tire-wrench? Who knows, let’s just fish through our tool kit and Mickey Mouse this thing. (The process, not the result, people.)

On the road again…. (where’s my music notes emoji?).

We arrive at the last major township of civilization and rush to the grocery store, which is minutes from closing, to grab a few items I forgot back at home. We also meet up with our friends (HELLOOOOOO!!!!!!) who’ve been waiting for us in the parking lot of said township for way too long.

We finally get to the family cabin hours later than planned (past midnight) and settle in for the best weekend ever!! SO fun! So relaxing! Oh, the conversation! Oh, the memories! No major mishaps.

Well, there was the time I got myself locked in a bedroom for far longer than I appreciated; and the fact that we sort of broke the charger for the GPS; and hubby’s delicious spicy green chili gave three of the six of us wicked sheebs (digestional blow-outs); and there was the frigid downpour while driving the Ranger through muddy trails in the middle of no where, but good times. Best-weekend-ever.

20150727_103713

Hubby was supposed to fix the leaking sink faucet that weekend, but he wisely refrained, knowing how all things mechanical were going for us so far.

When best-weekend-ever came to an end, we were all super sad to part. It went by way too fast! We said goodbye, hugged and hugged, and parted ways.

Ready for round two of our travel commute?

We head back to the nearest town and get two new, top quality tires on the trailer. (Thank you, spare tire! You did your duty!)

On the road again….

100 miles or so later: the rattle. The last time the truck got the shakes, the trailer tire blew to pieces, so we immediately pulled over. All four truck tires and the two new trailer tires seemed to be in perfect condition. Hmmmm…..

(insert potty break in wide open country with nothing to hide behind, but, I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.)

On the road again….

Once again, the shakes. So I called my dad. He gave us a few pointers on what to look for, but still nothing stood out as “wrong.” He assured us we’d probably be fine driving slow to the next town, where we could get them checked by professionals.

On the road again…. though 35 mph on the highway. “Thanks, Dad. Love you!” Hang up. 30 seconds. KA-BOOM! GRIND, GRIND, GRIND…..

This time, it was a truck tire, the huge, beefy kind. Mutilated. Not only that, but massive body damage to the back end/underside of the truck. That beefy tire decided if it was going to bite the dust, it would take out whatever it could with it.

20150727_145720

I’ll work on getting a better pic of the body damage.

Hey, did you know that those huge trucks have special ways of storing their spare tire? Yeah, they’re underneath by the axel. But you don’t just unscrew some bolts to free it. There’s a magical “key” that goes into a small hole above the back bumper in which you slowly crank down the tire. That took us a half hour to finally figure out.

It’s hot (like over 100*F), we’ve pulled over just past a big bend in the road (so incoming traffic has almost no notice), and there’s my Super-Hero Husband a foot from speeding traffic melting in the Arizona sun changing the biggest tire I’ve ever touched. My kids are wailing that they want to get home. I’m holding back tears. Husband’s jaw has never been so tense. Prayers for days, people.

IMG_25811

(Here’s a THANK HEAVENS! for my dad’s recent purchase: the world’s most awesome jack. At least lifting the truck and trailer were easy.)

Oh, did I mention that we were supposed to get home early because hubby had business to do for work? Yeah, so he was trying to get emails sent and calls made all while changing the second blow out in the scorching sun.

On the road again….

We stop at the next town, find the only tire place in the whole stinking county that sells the brand of tire we need, and get things squared away. “Freak manufacturer error,” according to the tire techs. So, at least hubby feels a little better that it wasn’t his fault. Oh, and the entire piece of body work from the back passenger door to the tailgate eventually needs to be replaced.

On the road again…..

I start cramping. Badly. Like painful contractions. Sweet Heavens, keep this baby in!  Hubby sighs, laughs, then says, “You know, giving birth in the car would be the icing on this cake, now wouldn’t it?”

We finally roll into my parents’ driveway. Dad comes out to assess and help, and while checking on the trailer hitch his brand new iPhone spills from his pocket and the screen shatters. Yep. We’re contagious.

We unload. I try to hose off the muddy Ranger, but instead my Dad takes charge of the hose and mumbles something about how he better take over from here. Probably didn’t want something else to fall into our Black Weekend trap.

Dear readers. Best-weekend-ever was also Worst-weekend-ever.

Yet, despite a seemingly endless trail of bad luck, we’re feeling pretty blessed that despite all this, we’re all home safe and healthy. Things could have turned out a lot differently. And I truly believe we were being watched over.  I think Heavenly Father must have a use for us down here on Earth.

Also, my husband is amazing. The best man on this planet. Sorry (not sorry) I scooped him up, ladies, but he’s mine forever.

And my dad is incredibly patient. And helpful. And (thank heavens) prepared.

20150727_103708

Moral of the story: say your prayers.

Other moral of the story: when things start to go south, prepare yourself for the fact that bad things don’t always come in threes. They might come in sixes, or sevens, or twelves.

Third moral of the story: remember these moments, so when you get to heaven you remember to thank the Angels.

-Tara

P.s. Good news: the garage wasn’t broken! It just needed to be re-set. Yay for super-hubby!