Because of this, I have stopped running. Because, I mean, seriously. No amount of running is ever going to give me Halle Berry arms or a Jessica Biel belly. An asthma attack and sore calves maybe, but that’s about it. So, that’s it. Done. Also, I’m pretty sure I might have quit running because it was plum becoming too trendy. Everyone is running these days. 5ks, 10ks, half marathons, marathons. Hell, even my kids are running at school. You aren’t somebody unless you are getting off the couch and getting a good running mix for your ipod and buying water bottle belts, OMG. (Obviously I was high when I bought that thing) It was like that time in 2007 and I was all, “You all, you need to listen to Fans by Kings of Leon,” and you were all “stop throwing your crappy music at me Ali” and then all of a sudden the whole world was all hopped up on Sex on Fire and they were like, “Ali, you need to listen to this great new band called Kings of Leon” and then I stopped listening to them because they were too popular. Running is kind of like that for me.

Only not really. Mostly I’m just jealous of runners who have actual legs and can walk into a store and buy jeans without having to spend an extra $20 to take them to a tailor who can lop off 6 inches and do a wicked original hem.

Well, either way, I’m starting a new trend.

BIKING.

(or, if we substitute an “a” for an “I”, Shauna Glenn is totally on board for the bAking trend.)

You heard it here first.

2010 is the year of the bike.

So, just as soon as I put down my fork and stop shoveling this, um, red velvet cheesecake into my gob, I’m going to run walk right out and get me a shiny and fancy new bike. Yes! I need a bike! Remember when I totally shredded my ankle and couldn’t continue my run and hopped on the stationary bike and had a gay old time and burned a crapload of calories and actually felt good after biking 15 miles and not how I felt after, like, 3 mile runs which was mostlydead?

I mean, they DO make bikes for midgets, right?

And maybe I’ll start a fashion trend while we are at it because I have this fancy fuel belt that needs to be put to good use.

If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over at Juice, my latest outfit over at The Urban Closet, my latest advice over at So You Want It, and my latest blathering over at Aiming Low.

become this

HOLD ME.

She is nine today.

She has her own twitter account (on which she is way funnier than I am).

She emails her friends from her iTouch.

She likes to experiment with my camera.

She is into Taylor Swift.  And Justin Bieber. And Zach Efron. and Lady Gaga.

She knows all the words to “I and Love and You” by the Avett Brothers.

She spends a lot of time in the bathroom.

She spends a lot of time in front of the mirror.

She spends a lot of time with a phone glued to her ear.

She spends a lot of time being moody.

She is on Team Jacob.

She watches American Idol and Project Runway and Wizards of Waverly Place and Full House.

She likes Silly Bandz and Words With Friends and Fashion Week.

She is a dancer. She is a singer. She is an actress.

She won’t wear a jacket.

She wears leggings and boots and plaid shirts and hoodies and sunglasses and scarves and hats.

She wears her “I heat Jake Ryan” shirt with pride, and actually knows who he is.

She is a little girl who wants to be big.

She is trouble.

She is awesome.

She is one of the three best things I have ever done.

You started out innocent enough. You were just another one on the laundry list of things my children need to have…the pillow pet, the snuggie, the brownie pan, the cupcake cake, the bump-it, the touch and brush toothpaste dispenser…yes, my children are a marketer’s wet dream. “You know what you need, Mama? PROACTIV!” Thank you, child, for pointing out my pesky little acne problem (but, it’s not my fault…it’s the effing Mirena!) Next thing you know, Isabella will be pimping that chin-exerciser contraption thing for my chin waddle. Children really are a blessing, aren’t they?

Yes, pimping as-seen-on-tv shit. As long as it’s shown during Full House. Oh my god, you guys, those Olsen Twins and Uncle Jesse are making a killing in royalty fees off of my children. At first I thought, it’s a miracle! A show that ALL THREE of my children will watch and not complain. But now, we have a dvr filled with 87 episodes, a child who wants to change her name to Michelle, and  “you got it, dude” and “how rude!” have permanently been added to their lexicons.

HOLD ME.

It’s all Full House. All the damn time.

The urges to make the meth jokes are strong with me.

But back to the pesky little problem at hand. We will deal with the fact that “whatever happened to predictability…the milk man, the paper boy…evening tv…” is in my head all the livelong day tomorrow. today we will deal with THIS

Apparently, you are not SOMEBODY unless you have more of these animal and circus and princess and rock shaped pieces of silicone than anyone else in your class. Apparently, if a boy likes you, he gives you silly bandz. Apparently, there are silly bandz CLUBS. Apparently, different silly bandz are worth more than others.

And apparently, you cannot buy this little suckers ANYWHERE.

Oh no, I have tried. I have driven around the city hearing about all the clubs my kids are going to get kicked out of if they can’t produce enough silly bandz. THERE WERE TEARS, people. TEARS. So, I bought them online.

Mother of the year, thankyouverymuch.

But, alas, there’s that little thing called 5-9 days shipping. My ears cannot take this. If those bloody things don’t arrive in the mail soon, there’s going to be hell to pay.

And I’m sure there’s a club I’m going to get kicked out of. No matter how many pink pancakes with chocolate chips I make for them…

If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over at Juice, my latest outfit over at The Urban Closet, my latest advice over at So You Want It, and my latest blathering over at Aiming Low.

It really doesn’t get much better than this. No. Josh is so funny. I sit with him every night while he does his homework, and there really is no question that this kid, well, marches to his own drummer. When he sits down to do a math sheet, maybe a page of 50 simple subtraction problems, it takes him about 8 seconds to do the entire sheet. But, the bizarre thing is, he doesn’t fill in the sheet the way his anal mother would. I would go in order…filling in the first row, left to right, and then go down to the second row. My son, on the other hand, is much more a free spirit. He will jump around the page in a totally random, all-over-the-place nonorder. And he never carries ones or anything…no. All his math is done in his head. Where the heck does he get that from. (Cough. His mother still counts on her fingers. Cough.)

Wired differently, this child.

He is seven and reads at a level U. And if you look at this here handy dandy chart, that’s 5th/6th grade. And he reads at leasta novel a night. This is where he is, most nights at around midnight…

and yet he got kicked out of Reading Enrichment. Kicked Out. For NOT being prepared. It seems that he reads the assigned material too quickly and then reads 18 books before they get around to discussing the book and then he forgets what that book was about. So he got kicked out. awesome.

He watches a tv show or movie or hears a song ONE TIME and can recite, by memory, every word uttered, every line sung, every joke told. But yet some nights he can’t remember to bring his homework home. It’s a simple task, really. One that’s required of him every single day of his life, but some days he just plum forgets.

It takes him hours to get ready to go anywhere and don’t even get me started on how long it takes us to find his goddamn shoes every. single. morning. and while I’m standing at the door telling him that I am about to leave, he gives me gems like this: Alright, Mommy, I’m coming! Keep your pantyhose on! And yet. If you tell him it’s time for karate, he’s in his gi faster than Mr. Miyagi can catch a fly with his chopsticks.

He’s an enigma, this one.

I don’t understand him. But I don’t really care…because, good god, he is such a ridiculously awesome kid, quirks and all.

Take a minute to digest that little nugget.

Yes. I bought a house in the Toronto suburbs while holed up in my sick bed in Atlanta. I would have been on a plane the second we began the negotiation process, but since queasiness and I are not a good combination on a good day, I figured the last place I should probably be is on an airplane. But, here’s the thing. I told our agent exactly what I wanted.

A nice kitchen. (Bonus: Stainless steel appliances and dark wood.)

A backyard that isn’t postage-stamp sized (Bonus: If I can’t see into our back neighbors’ bedroom, it’s a WIN. We had very large, very uninhibited neighbors. It was not pretty.) It’s big! It overlooks the ravine and no naked people! I mean, granted there is a kind of scary shed that the husband says is for things like lawn mowers and other outdoor trinkets, but I have seen all the horror movies…I know that sheds are the thing of nightmares.

Lots of windows! Lots of open space! Molding! Pillars!

A finished basement.

I think she delivered, don’t you?

I am putting the husband on an airplane this morning to be there for the inspection. But, honestly, it’s really so he can take some more pictures for you all me.

If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over at Juice, my latest outfit over at The Urban Closet, my latest advice over at So You Want It, and my latest blathering over at Aiming Low.

Cleaning lady day.

No homework days.

Movie theater popcorn.

Josh knowing all the words to The Star Spangled Banner.

A giant coffee showing up without you having to ask for it.

Your favorite hoodie straight out of the dryer.

A giant hunk of cookie dough.

Finishing a 1,000-piece puzzle.

Paying $29.99 for a dress at the BCBG  outlet that you almost paid full price for last year.

Discussing LOST with kristabella.

My children watching The Neverending Story for the first time. And loving it.

Isabella in a tutu.

A bra that makes your boobs look awesome.

The day after the stomach flu.

A healing puppy.

Target.

The answer “You know, it was a lot of wax on, wax off-ing” when I ask my son how karate was.

Cracking open a new book.

Theater tickets for your and your first-born.

A really good cover of a really good song.

Unexpected gifts in the mail, especially the kind that tell you not to f$%ck with the Jesus. I’m looking at you, Metalia and J.

A perfect black t-shirt.

Researching beach rentals for you and your entire family.

Stride gum.

Hugging Emily after not seeing her for 16 days.

Radiohead on repeat.

Hearing news of a shrinking tumor.

Being able to be at one of your niece’s dedications and birthday parties. viva la Nashville!

If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over at Juice, my latest outfit over at The Urban Closet, my latest advice over at So You Want It, and my latest blathering over at Aiming Low.

This year, alas, I am not in Vancouver. No, instead I have been perched on the couch from prime-time until bedtime immersed in this world filled with figure skating and speed skating and bobsledding and half-piping and curling. Well, at least this world according to NBC. I understand that NBC has to keep its sponsors happy…yes, NBC needs the money. But, by keeping sponsors happy, you know who isn’t happy? Every single person on the west coast who has to wait to see all the coverage until their prime time; who has to find out on twitter that the torch lighting had a minor malfunction and that, of course, #99 was a part of it (the lighting, not the malfunction…although that would have been hilarious). And you know who else isn’t happy? American-Canadians who are currently living in the US who are used to watching CTV’s excellent Olympic coverage. Oh yes. ME.

Regardless of how I feel about the American coverage, I haven’t been able to watch much of anything else (although I DID make time to watch LOST last night because OMGLOST!) No. I have been watching all the close-up junk shots of Apolo Ohno. I have been disturbed by the brother/sister ice dancing teams. I am sorry, there is NEVER a reason to have your face in your brother’s crotch. Or, you know, almostkissing.

I have joined many fans in booing the judges who totally underscored Johnny Weir, who, yes, probably wouldn’t have medaled, but dude is a friggin’ skating rockstar, and not just because he skates to Lady Gaga. I cried during the alphabetical parade of countries, when the team from the Republic of Georgia came out with the obvious hole in their hearts and a black ribbon attached to their flag. I cried when Evan Lysacek finished his performance. Hell, I even cried when he talked so graciously about his opponent Evgeni Plushenko, sore loser extraordinaire. I cried during the Canadian Joannie Rochette’s emotional performance.

It seems I have been doing a lot of crying.

But I think, surprisingly, I wept the hardest when they showed the footage of high-school senior Rachael Flatt on the ice at 3-years-old.

(NO. It wasn’t when I learned that the Flying Tomato is actually Shaun White’s nickname and not just some cruel joke.)

Really.

Watching the Olympics as a parent sure is different than watching it as a kid.

And especially, for me, since I recently realized that this could, possibly one day be ME. I mean, Emily is not a figure skater, but you can substitute dancing or acting or singing in there. And THE PRIDE. I mean, I can tell you about the pride I feel just watching my children, any of my children, perform in silly little school performances and how it brings me to embarrassing weepy tears. “Mommy, stop crying. You are the only mommy crying. You are embarrassing me in front of all of my friends. GOD!” I cannot even imagine what it must be like for parents of Olympic athletes. These parents who have sacrificed their time and their energy and their money and that pit in their stomach that they have each time they have to watch their child compete and possibly fail. Oh my god…the possible fail.

So, really, I need to stop watching the parent shots and footage of these athletes as children

and just spend more time looking at Apolo Ohno’s junk.

or maybe not…

If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over at Juice, my latest outfit over at The Urban Closet, my latest advice over at So You Want It, and my latest blathering over at Aiming Low.

I needed that.

Indiana is recovering nicely. His incision looks good and he’s got lots of energy. But I am tired, emotionally and physically. He’s getting up early to go out. He is in need of being kept away from Gracie the golden and Montana the half-breed (Oh, Cher...) the entire day. He is eating four meals a day of dog food that omg comes out of a can and is taking three pills a day plus some liquid in a syringe. FUN. I have gone the hiding-it-in-the-peanut-butter route and it seems to be working better than trying to shove all those meds down his poor gullet. Dude can swallow a whole thong, but can’t handle a teeny leetle pill. Wuss.

On Saturday night, my sister and I had a date night. Twist and Shutter Island. I know the movie got some mixed box office reviews, but, you guys, I really liked it. What I didn’t like was the dreaded x.

Was that really necessary…I mean, really? But, I am still talking about the movie today, days later. And I ordered the book on amazon, and once I discovered that the other is the same one who wrote Mystic River, I pretty much fell in love with Dennis Lehane right there on the spot. So, yes, date night.

I needed that.

I am currently hiding up in the bedroom because my poor niece is having a barfy morning. and yet, I *knew* this was coming. I could have told you yesterday morning as my brother was telling me about their day with their friends…their friends whose daughters had a stomach virus earlier in the week; their friends whose house they needed to leave early because she was goddamned barfing. I KNEW. I just did. I didn’t react quickly enough when Isabella drank from her cousin’s milkshake yesterday. I should have. But, now, expect some vomity tweets from me this week.

On Thursday we went down to my brother in law’s office. We got to sit and eat cheetos on bubble wrapped furniture and go outside and take some shots. and run around a building with crazy gymnasium-like acoustics.

I needed that.

Because in addition to what you are reading here, there are other things. I know that when you put your life on the internet, a person who writes a #creepythesis about you and paints this portrait of who she thinks you are – rich! spoiled! eating-disordered! attention-seeking! – what she doesn’t realize is that what I, and most bloggers, put online is the stuff I want you to read. The stuff I am okay spilling in an obviously public place. There are things I don’t write about here, won’t write about here, and can’t write about here. So, while yes, my week sucked because my husband is away and my daughter is halfway across the world in Israel where I can’t touch her and talk to her and hug her and love all over her, and my dog almost died, and my vomit-phobia comes into play, there’s also some more major suckage. Stuff that comes from my family and makes some stupid person writing a thesis about me seem very insignificant. Yes, this is suckage that hits me deep to my core and has broken me and embarrassed me like nothing else in my life has ever done and I’m not the type to be all passive-agressive (oh! there’s news! I just can’t share it!) I guess I just don’t want you to walk away being all…wow, that Ali sure complains a lot…that doesn’t sound so bad, I just want to assure you, it’s bad and if you were with me, you’d want to buy me a cookie. Or something.

/rant

So, I take pleasure in the little things. The happy things. The sunny days at the park. The movies with my sister. The Mac that is now my very own. The fact that I will see my first-born before I go to sleep tonight. The friends I am so thankful to have in my life, even if they live way too far away. The fact that we sold our house yesterday without having to put it on the market (selling privately FTW!). The Olympics. The photos I have taken that I’m pretty proud of. The DVR full of this week’s tv to watch. The work assignments.

Only it’s not over. We are going through this all over again.

Because my doggy? He has an underwear fetish. I mean, it’s not really just underwear. It’s bras and puzzle pieces and little pet shops and Barbie limbs and sippy cups and leaves and socks and shoes and slippers and well, pretty much everything he can sink his teeth into. It’s pica at it’s best. Or worst. But mostly it’s underwear. And no matter how careful I am with keeping laundry baskets out of reach and putting clean laundry away, he is a crafty sort. He’s kind of a perv, that little bugger.

And earlier this week, when I pulled half a v-string out of his mouth (one of my favorites, PS), I didn’t really think anything of it. He eats things he shouldn’t all the time. But then it started.

The vomiting. the lethargy. the decisions. the surgery.

They really just don’t prepare you.

You bring home a puppy and he’s just fantastic. He fits your family like a glove and becomes part of you instantly. He lies on top of Isabella and kisses her all over her face and loves on her because she is clearly his favorite. He makes everyone happy. He keeps you company when your husband is out of town and you spoil him and let him sleep at the end of your bed because, well, a couple nights won’t hurt him…

They really just don’t prepare you.

He loves this stupid aflac duck toy and throws it around the room. He loves his pal Gracie and let’s her throw him around the room. He is super stubborn and refuses to do his business when it rains. He will hold it for three days if he has to (we will never be moving to Seattle). He makes a shitty guard dog, as he doesn’t even bark when the doorbell rings. He just recently learned to leap tall couches in a single bound and looks very smug while doing it.

They really just don’t prepare you.

They don’t tell you that your one-and-a-half-year-old one-year-old puppy could possibly have been born with a bum intestine. They don’t tell you that he has an obstruction in it and it caused  him to vomit 27 times and then become listless and lethargic. They don’t tell you that it’s going to cost your Disney vacation plus your new laptop plus some other money you don’t have to go on and open him up andtry to fix him. They don’t tell you that  the money will seem completely insignificant because all you can think about it the possibility of getting your puppy well. They don’t tell you that he’s going to be in a ton of pain. They don’t tell you that the surgery might not work and that they may have to put him down.

put him down.

my puppy. my Indy.

They really just don’t prepare you for having to explain this all to your children; the very kids who have grown to love their surprise chrismukah gift more than any other gift they have ever received.

The surgery that found at least three pairs of underwear is over. Indy came out like a champ. He’s a special one, my boy. He will hopefully be coming home to us tomorrow and will hopefully not have the awful recovery he had the last time. I am now going to have to figure out how to change our lives. I am going to have to figure out how to – with three small children – keep every single edible and non-edible item out of Indy’s reach. (read: virtually impossible). And how to keep Indy in his crate or tethered up to something at every moment of the day (read: virtually impossible). But, honestly, what choice do I have?

I cannot do this again.

Indy cannot do this again.

We cannot do this again.

Here’s the thing. Isabella, if she could, would spend 24 hours of her day in the nude. It’s true.

PANTS ARE THE ENEMY.

The minute she walks in the door after school, while combing the shelves of the pantry for many, many snacks, she drops trou right there in the kitchen. She’s a free spirit, it seems. But, you know, I’m a fan of picking my battles. There’s only so many minutes in my day I can devote to physically torturing my child to get her pants, or her tights, or her skirts on her body. Sometimes it’s just not worth it. Most times, actually.

A few nights ago she and I went to pick up Josh from a birthday party. Isabella wore a shirt and tights and shoes. She was quite the vision, let me tell you. It’s funny, though, because you can tell right away which people are parents to non-pantswearers. They look at you with the OH I KNOW smileslashshrug of solidarity. They have been there.

And then there are the supportive friends who tell you that hey, if it’s good enough for Lady Gaga….

Last night she arrived at the dinner table dressed in a jacket and tights and nothing else to not eat the dinner she asked me for – chicken, rice, and edamame – and opted instead for an apple.

I suppose it’s not really her fault, though and I probably shouldn’t be surprised.

I mean….

Her mother never wears pants either.