This is NOTHING like being a Deadhead.

You've heard about The 30 Day Shred, right?

Jillian Michaels? Biggest Loser? She who will kick your ass back and forth 'til Sunday because she wants you to be the best and most sore person you can be?

Yeah, that one.

That psycho hose beast woman has me by the short and curlies. I am her bitch bitch.

Let me back up.

There I was Sunday evening, sipping a glass of wine and eating cookies - and I will interrupt here to say Duuuuuh. Because on any given night you might find me sipping wine and eating cookies. I may have well said I was breathing and blinking - when I got very interested in a Twitter conversation Kristen started about getting a group together to do The Shred. Blame it on the wine, blame it on the cookie crumbs covering my muffin top... hell, blame it on the bossa nova, but I was all Hell Yes! I too want to SHRED!

I had no idea what the Shred entailed but when you have that rosy glow in your belly and a flush on your cheeks that only comes from the one-two punch of vino and tasty treats peddled by Girl Scouts shredding your body seems like a really good idea.

(Also, she named it the Shredheads. Which to my wine soaked brain sounded a helluva lot like Deadheads and I flashed back to my youth - quickly mind you, because have you ever been to a Dead concert? Yeah, poof. My memory, it ain't so good - and I immediately thought of special brownies.

Mmmm, special brownies.

Now you know why I get stuck on so many tangents.)

That good idea in the light of day? When sober? Come to find out, notsomuch.

But if my girls can do it then dammit, so can I. How bad could it be?

[Insert maniacal laughter of those who have done the Shred here]

I'm on day 2 and my thighs have not hurt this much since way back in the day when I was playing high school basketball and our sadistic coach made us do suicides until our legs spontaneously tore from our bodies and picketed outside the gym in protest. If I didn't have a support group I don't think I would keep going. Thanks to Kristen there are others out there at this very moment, shredding.

Viva la Shredheads!

Join us. Really, it's not so bad.

[Bwahahahahaha!]

If you don't want to join, at least lend some moral support. Gifts of cookies are also appreciated.

Here are my starting stats:

Code name: Miss Mary Sunshine

Tag Line: Jillian Michaels can kiss my flabby ass. (Alternate tag - This sucks sweaty donkey balls)

Weight: 136lbs

Goal: I'd like to take my girls to the beach this summer. In a bathing suit. Do I really need to say more?

Diet Plan: Eat less cookies. Bitch. Eat less chocolate. Moan. Drink less wine. Whine.

Rules: Eat better. Try not to kill anyone.

Shred Plan: Level one. 3lb hand weights (started with 5lb and I can't lift my arms. I'm typing with my nose.)

Zoloft. Zinfandel. What's the difference?

Me: "We really need to sit down and make out a strict budget and stick to it. Things are so expensive right now."

Him: "Fine with me. What were you thinking?"

Me: "Well, for instance, we really need to put aside a certain dollar amount for things like kids clothes. They're both growing like crazy it's hard to keep up. I'm just glad that C.C. can wear most of Chicky's old baby clothes."

Him (nodding but barely listening): "Mmm hmmm."

Me: "And we need to be tough on how much money we spend on wine. No more stopping on the way home from work and picking up a random bottle. We need to be tough about that. I think wine should fall under 'Entertainment'."

Him (perking up): "Can't we put that under 'Medication'? I mean, that's what it is, isn't it??"

Me: "You know I'm totally going to blog that, right?"

Him (lost in thought): "I wonder if we can leverage my Flexible Spending Account for that?"

Sure, now she learns how to speak

On Wednesday Mr. C and I took Chicky with us to a local liquor store. As we walked through the automatic door Chicky took one look at the impressive display of booze in front of her, drew in her breath and said,

"Oooh, Mommy's wine! Mommy's wine!!"

I don't know whether to be scared, embarrassed or proud.

And yes, that was a two word sentence she made. I don't think I'll share this story with EI.

Obsess much?

I recently spoke with Early Intervention to schedule that appointment for Chicky's I-don't-know-if-she's-speech-delayed, but-she-could-be-oh-my-scrod-she-could-be, but-she-might-not-be-and-I'll-look-like-a-schmuck, but-what-the-hell-it's-covered-by-insurance appointment. Did you know they send a team to your house evaluate your kid? A team?? As in more than one?? So it's not just one person who will think I'm a raving lunatic but I'll have a full audience of people to witness my psychotic break when they tell me my child is fine.

Oh, that's wonderful - hee hee! - I'm so sorry to make you come all the way out here - hee hee! - You were so good to take time out of your busy schedules of taking care of real kids with problems to indulge my panic attacks - hee hee!

No, no, I didn't mean problems - hee hee! - but issues. No! Not issues but very fixable delays - hee hee! - I'm sure only slight delays as all children are wonderful and perfect and no one is different and let's all join hands in a circle and sing "Kumbaya" and "He's got the whole world in His hands". He's got the itty bitty babies in His hands, oh the babies, yes the babies, the wonderful not at all differently-abled babies...

This breakdown will also occur if my child is, in fact, diagnosed with a speech delay, which honestly has not even occurred to me since I've been too busy obsessing over the disapproving looks I'm sure to get from the over-worked/under-paid people from EI.

And the great news is that I have another week and a half to obsess about this! Our appointment isn't until next Friday! Hurrah!

If you're looking for me I'll be curled in the fetal position under the covers, probably with a bottle of vodka and a blankie for comfort.

Not that I'm concerned for what might happen if Chicky is diagnosed with a speech delay. I'll handle it. We'll handle it. I'm more concerned about looking like a helicopter parent who hovers over every move her child makes, diagnoses every sniffle as cancer and makes all her child's meals from scratch with organic ingredients - which is so not true since I'm fairly certain that individually wrapped slice of American cheese-food I just fed her is in no way organic.

Humiliation, thy name is "Mall"

I've just returned from a trip to The Mall.

I hate The Mall.

I hate the mall with a fiery passion that rivals the heat of 10 million suns. Or is it the heat of 10 million sunless tanning beds?

I'm tired. I'm cranky. I just found a new zit on my chin. My hair is a static-y mess from pulling my sweater off and on in arid dressing rooms. And I'm hungry. I'm hungry because I decided to skip the food court to get Chicky back home in time for a late nap. But will I eat? Hell no. I just saw myself half naked in the fluorescent glare of a full length Banana Republic mirror.

(I guess I'll be jumping on the ol' elliptical trainer this evening. Someone please put me out of my misery.)

I hate the mall. The mall is a 21 year old girl with perfect highlights, high heels and perky boobs. She doesn't have Cheerios stuffed into her jacket pocket or graham cracker crumbs stuck to her sweater. She can try on a pair of pants without worrying if the material will stretch oddly over her saddle bags or if it will create an even larger muffin top. She doesn't cringe when she sees what the harsh lights do to the cellulite on her legs or the bags under her eyes. She doesn't stand in front of the mirror - while her toddler runs around behind her wielding a clothes hanger like a weapon - pulling the skin of her face back towards her hairline, trying to create the illusion of her younger self...

Not that I would do that either. I'm just saying...

Yeah.

I hate the mall. And because of one innocent trip to find myself some weather appropriate clothing (which is a joke in and of itself since it SNOWED last night) I'm now feeling really, really sorry for myself.

And I would like to go bury my sorrows in a pint of Ben and Jerry's, but I can't. Because I just saw my half naked body in a Banana Republic mirror.

I think I'll take a nap instead. You know, so I won't feel myself starving.