Yoga ain't for sissies

Source: google.com.ph via ilove on Pinterest

I gave Hubby a copy of the intense P90X DVD workout program for Christmas.

Now, I know giving a exercise videos or a  gym  membership could be construed as a rather rash gift.  Certain women, if they received such a not-so-subtle hint, might turn like a rabid pit bull on their partner until placated with jewelry or tremendous ass-kissing (pun intended). But my Hubby had been strongly hinting about how he wanted to work out more, so I thought I'd help him out.

Needless to say, the DVDs have not left their box. Until today.***

He decided we should do the 90 minute yoga program. Together.

Though I am most certainly not a pro, I've been practicing yoga once or twice a week for about a year.  I was hooked from my first class with my current yoga instructor. She replaced a teacher who was more suited for barking boot camp orders than balancing chakras. That fearsome woman nearly drove me to tears when I couldn't get up to a full headstand my first class. (I still can't, and have no desire to try.)

But I could have a total girl crush on this new instructor, if I was the type to do such things. Her voice soothes  like the waters of a steamy hot spring, her words encourage to stretch and soar, her hands melt skin when she gently moves a shoulder or hip for an adjustment.  She could make a fortune lulling people to sleep each night like she eases us into our final relaxation pose (Shavasana) after each class.

{ah, anyway}

Back the husband.

He's flexible. He's an athlete. He'd never tried yoga. He thought it was just an easy way to waste an hour practicing breathing (don't we do that anyway?) and stretching like a 5-year-old might before t-ball practice.  If 100-year-old skeletal Indian guys do it, so how hard could it be?

Heh, heh, heh....

After ten minutes his breath sounded irregular and craggy. I warned him no panting was allowed. After 15 minutes, he worked up a slick of sweat. I tossed him a bath towel. After 30 minutes, he struggled to stay on his feet and his balance and positioning resembled my elderly grandmother trying to get up with a broken ankle.

But he wasn't half bad for a beginner.

Granted, I did strip down from flannel p.j.s to a tank top and turned on the fan. And perhaps it was a bit tricky to keep traction on a 30-year-old camping mat while the cat licked my toes. But I was just fine. And perhaps gloating...just a wee bit.

"So, still think yoga is for sissies?"

"You are putting it nicely," he panted. "Yoga ain't for pussies." He sopped up his sweat with a bath towel before he collapsed.

But he finished. And enjoyed himself. And he's going to be hurting tomorrow like he ran the NYC Marathon (uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow).  Maybe we'll do it again together next Sunday.

{Ohmmmm}

*** Note: I wrote this post a few weeks ago. Since then, Hubby has been a trouper, and he now tries to do the yoga DVD a few times a week. He no longer looks like my Grandmother. And once in a while, Kiddo will even attempt a little bit of yoga zen.

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Novel Inspirations & Memories Captured

I've been focusing on editing my manuscript lately. I've been loosing myself in the lush rainforests of Costa Rica, dreaming my toes are sinking into the black sand beaches where much of the story takes place.  I look back on the photographs of my journey through that wonderland daily, coaxing memories of the sound of howler monkeys in the treetops, the scent of orchid blooms mixed with gallo pinto, the feel of the pregnant air, heavy with with imminent rain.

Since I wasted spent an afternoon playing with my photos on Picnik, I lessened my guilt by using images that would inspire my writing, and words to go along with my characters and story.

Inspiration is everywhere

if you just take a moment to look...

I'm linking up again with Galit Breen of These Little Waves and Alison of Mama Wants This  

for the Memories Captured meme. 

Check it out!

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My words, My Voice

Source: englishmuse.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

I joined a monthly writer's meet-up group about a year ago.  I haven't attended each month. I wasn't allowed. If I hadn't cranked out enough words on my manuscript that month, I didn't consider myself a real writer. Slacker — yes, but writer — no.

Since I finished draft #1, I figured I damn well earned the title.

In real life, I am a wallflower. Seriously shy. My mouth might as well be duck-taped shut around strangers. At all of the previous meetings I attended I sat quietly, lips zipped, listening to electrical engineers and actresses, karate instructors and math professors read a short piece of writing.  

Their writing.

Some of their diverse pieces were amazing. Some...not so much.

But I've never shared my own work.

Last night I finally let them hear my voice.

It was a total last minute decision. I planned to bring in the first few pages of my novel, edited. Since last week was a giant clusterfluck, that didn't happen. Concerned I would soon be perceived as some kind of wanna-be-writer-stalker, I figured they deserved to read something from me. A half-hour before I had to leave, I alternated printing 25 copies of a blog post while prepping a quick gourmet meal for the family (premade bbq chicken and tater tots — whoohoo!).

I last spoke before an audience back in college, and I refuse to mention exactly how long ago that was. My feet tapped, my stomach knotted, my heart thought I was running a 5k. I tried yoga breathing and sipped on endless mugs of hot tea in a vain attempt to stay calm. (No wine available. Damn. I guarantee that would have loosened my tongue.) 

I didn't throw up. Though I really wanted to.

And I did it.

I read my Swimsuit Shopping {Part one: the Grey Hair} post. If it was funny enough for Scary Mommy, it should work for a bunch of part-time hacks, right?

The audience laughed on cue. I received a (minor) ovation at the close. They wrote positive, encouraging words on their reading copies (and corrected only one typo) before they shuffled the pages back down the tables to me. 

Hallelujah.

The woman next to me commented about how "candid" my essay was. Candid? Obviously she was unfamiliar with the blogosphere. As I scanned through  my published posts trying to find an accurate example of my writing, I gravitated towards humor. I can laugh at myself just fine. There was no way I could have read any of my truly candid posts, presented my tales of heartbreak or grief  for all to critique. Funny how they are far too personal to read aloud to a few dozen strangers, yet I can write them for the world to read and judge.

Hopefully next month I will have my chance to get some feedback on my 'real' writing.  I think I may throw up that night.

It gets easier each time, right?

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I Should Have Been a French Parent

Source: education-games-for-kids.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

We've all heard how American kids are spoiled, whiny, co-dependent little zealots who are permitted to survive on boxed mac and cheese while their mothers drift off to Zanax-land because their demanding darlings still won't sleep through the night at age four. Whether or not you agree with this is immaterial. This is how much of the world sees us.


We give into our kids food cravings because we are afraid they will starve themselves to death.

We permit them to wake as often as they want at night, always rushing in to sooth them at their first call.

We spend our lives shuttling them from Gymboree to gymnastics from toddlerhood on, intent on giving them structured play time so they never feel bored.

We play with them on demand so they never feel ignored or unloved, and push off our chores until they have finally drifted to dreamland, sacrificing our chance for some leisure time to catch up on laundry.

We turn ourselves inside out trying to appease our little major generals. They rule our world. And they know it.

The French, simply don't.

We all knew those French were different. But, zut alors, perhaps we didn't know how different. First we discover French women don't get fat, and now they are better parents as well?

 According to all the buzz, Bringing up Bebe: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting celebrates les Français strict, yet hands-off approach to parenting.  Pamela Druckerman, an American journalist raising her children in France, dispels the myths of typical American parenting vs. the traditional French approach in her new book. 

For example:

• French kids eat real food. Sitting at a table, with adults, using silverware and napkins and manners. Their plates are more likely to be filled with broccoli and brie than chicken nuggets.

• French babies sleep through the night at a very young age. It is the typical French  practice to start teaching  infants how to sleep through the night as early as two or three months, supposedly not through a strict Feberization, but more of an "attentive listening" process.

• French children throw far fewer temper tantrums than their American counterparts. They are taught to delay gratification,  that they can't always get what they want (sing it, Mick), and they are allowed to figure out how to resolve their own spats while their parents watch and nibble on a croissant.

• The French parenting ideal is called the cadre or frame. Children have strict, set rules for things such as school/daycare arrivals and departure times, meals, and naps. But how they spend the rest of their time is up to them. Boredom is encouraged, so children to learn how to amuse themselves. 

•  French parenting, as described by Druckerman, is "a combination of being very strict about a few key things but also giving children lots of freedom.”  No helicopter moms in French airspace.

• French parents claim to be far more relaxed and laid back. Their children are not the center of the universe at all times. "French mothers assume that even good parents aren't at the constant service of their children and that there's no need to feel guilty about this."

Happy parents lead to happy children, non?

Honestly, this sounds quite a bit like how I parent.  And I cannot tell you the amount of merde I get for my parenting style.

Since I can't afford to move to France (yes, it is a dream — lavender fields, good food, fine wine...) I will  appease myself by reading this book, so I can discover if the French really do have more of a clue about parenting.

Vive la différence?

Oui or non?

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It's My SITS Day & the Origin of Vinobaby

 It's my SITS Day! A special welcome to all of the SITS GIRLS dropping by today. If you somehow don't know about the SITS Girls, a quick rundown: they are a fabulous support group of 15,000+  women bloggers who are passionate about building a community and sharing their blogging and social media skills. They are smart, savvy, and want to help make YOU a success. Check them out.


In honor of all the newbies, I decided to finally answer a question that has been burning in my online friend's minds for years:  How did you come up with that weird Vinobaby name?

Eons ago (okay 2008), when I first broke down and started this blog, I was a reluctant SAHM stuck at home with only my darling yet daunting 4-year-old for company, and I often teetered on the brink of sanity.  Days blurred together as I shuttled the Kiddo to playgroups and kept house like a frugal 50s flashback housewife (minus the pearls and heels, of course).

I parented differently than many of the moms cluttering the park benches and kiddie gyms. I wasn't afraid of my child like so many of them, wasn't terrified he wouldn't like me, or worried I'd scar him for life by telling him "NO" if he tried to bite me while drawing on the couch with permanent marker.  And I seemed to be the only SAHM who did not find changing diapers fulfilling. I longed to be more...

I had things I wanted to say, but I simply didn't have the proper audience in real life. So I went online. Like so many of you. Fearing I would be stoned on the playgrounds or plastered with a scarlet letter for my scandalous beliefs, I chose to remain anonymous.

Lets drift back a little further...

While growing fat and busty eagerly awaiting Kiddo's arrival, I explored some of the pregnancy message boards. Most of my friends IRL were child-free career girls and I was desperate to find women who had a clue what I was going through. I wasn't going to use my REAL name — that just wasn't safe of smart. I started thinking...

An ACHTUNG BABY condom package hung from my bulletin board, a souvenir from an amazing U2 concert years ago. (I was in college, it seemed like cool souvenir at the time.)

The Hubby and I married in Italy and loved going to wine tastings together...wine in Italian is VINO...

Besides having a BABY on the brain (and on my bladder) at the time, babies are often made with the help of a little vino. (You can't tell me ours is the only one. The preponderance of children named "Tequila," "Bailey," and "Margarita" would fail to argue.)

A screen name was born.

It may be lame, but that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The original title for this blog was Musings From the Bottom of a Plastic Wine Glass.  I know. Too long. To lush. Not that Vinobaby's Voice is any better, but for now, I'm stuck with it.  If all goes as planned, I will complete my novel, my writing career will take off, and this will be the little blog attached to my big professional author website. Someday.

It's good to dream.

So, welcome to my world. If you are new here, you will find my blog is rather eclectic,  like me.  While I no longer consider this a just Mommy Blog, I do often write about kids and family. But as I've grown-up and my world has diversified, so has the blog.  I post about food, writing, books,  newsworthy issues, wine, and occasionally I whine. I try to keep some humor in most of my writing, because sometimes a laugh is what gets us through the day (at least until 5 o'clock). Check out the Popular Posts tab to see what other readers have liked.

So I invite you to pull up a chair, put your feet up, grab a mug of coffee or glass of wine and explore. Follow me on Facebook, join me on Twitter, and subscribe by RSS. Please? We can all use a bigger tribe. Feel free to look me up on Pinterest or GoodReads, too.  Thanks so much for dropping by!


 

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Scalloped fingers with a side of mandolin whine

Please excuse any tpyos, as I am pecking at the keyboard for the first time since typing class in middle school. And trying not to yelp. Granted, only the cat is home to laugh at my pitiful attempt at hacking, but she keeps shooting me totally unsympathetic glares and has been sniffing around at my wounded digit as if she'd make me a meal if I ever die home alone.

As I've stated many times, I will never qualify to be a REAL foodie. While I do love to cook and make many dinners my friends consider "fancy-schmancy," there are a few things I just make straight from the box. Like cake. And potatoes.

Another reason I will never be a real foodie: apparently I lack basic slicing skills. I can wield a knife just fine, thank you, but  I am not responsible enough to use a mandolin slicer.

 Looks simple, like on this example from Amazon.com, right?

SunDAY was lovely, the kind of day I fantasized about when I imagined my life as a grown-up with a family.  I enjoyed a yoga class in the morning, then Hubby, Kiddo, and I rode our bikes to the park for a leisurely afternoon of reading, playing, and quality family time. I had no choice but to complete the Rockwell-esque day with a classic Sunday dinner. I make a mean meatloaf (and if you don't like meatloaf, it's only because you've never had a good one), and I wanted something homestyle, something evoking images of June Cleaver in an apron (and pearls and heels) to pair with it. I still had potatoes leftover from Christmas, so I decided make some scalloped potatoes from scratch. No problem, right?

Wrong. So. Utterly. Wrong.

I make homemade potatoes once a year, at Christmas. And these potatoes kick ass, but they take far too much time and effort to make on a regular basis. (I'll post the fantabulous recipe one of these days.) We don't go the potato route often, but when we do, I usually leave it to Betty-in-a-box.

The savory meatloaf went into the oven, I peeled the potatoes (a task I HATE), then broke out the mandolin. First potato sliced up fine. I turned to my Hubby, who was washing dishes beside me, and bragged, "Look how EASY this is."

Famous last words.  Never, ever utter such a challenge to the fates when dealing with razor sharp blades. Might as well just shoot myself in the foot.

The second potato was oddly shaped, like funky turnip or a turd. It wouldn't stay in the SAFETY guard. It was so long— my fingers were inches away from the blade — I figured I'd just trim down one end flat so it would fit into the safety guard.

Slice. Slice. Slice. SCREAM.

I looked down and all I saw was red. And firework bursting before my eyes.

I threw my finger under the faucet and screamed at my Hubby to get me a towel. He gave me a wad of paper towels, which I pressed to my finger as I slid down to the floor.

I sat there, with the cabinets holding me upright, direct pressure on my wound, for a good 20 minutes. Kiddo offered to call 9-1-1 for me. The bleeding must have stopped, as nothing was dripping onto the floor or anything, so I passed on that idea.

Hubby peeked around the potato slices, checking for any lurking finger parts. He found none. But there had to be something there. Then he actually asked if I wanted to save the damn potatoes. Hell, no — I do not want a side of skin with my potatoes, thanks. (Oh, trying not to get nauseous...)

Eventually, I had to get my finger bandaged properly. I can't look at my own blood. I will pass out faster than you can say "I am a freaking wuss."  It was up to Hubby.  As soon as he removed my compressed paper towels, I screamed. He panicked. He threw some antibiotic on some gauze and slapped it on my finger.

I ran through my entire repertoire of swear words. Yes, it burned that &*%$#*@ bad.

Eventually the pain receded and we managed to eat dinner (and we didn't even burn the meatloaf, yeah!). I sucked down a well-deserved glass of wine.

But we still have no idea how much of my finger was sliced off. We are all afraid to asses the damage.

When I called my parents this morning, I received absolutely no sympathy. None. Instead they laughed hysterically. Maybe I should drive a half hour to have them change the bandages and check the damage. (Okay, my mom worked the desk at an ER and my dad was a paramedic — I'd have to lose a full appendage to get sympathy, I suppose.) It's just a flesh wound...

I wonder if I can convince the Kiddo to tend to my finger. Maybe I can bribe him with a new Skylander?

Typing without  a finger utterly sucks.

Source: epidm.edgesuite.net via Leeann on Pinterest

What I wanted.

vs.

What I got.

Betty Crocker is making ALL of my potatoes from now on.

And mandolin slicers are tools of the devil.

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Confessions of a Scary Mommy: The Book, The Review

I shall start by assuming you all know about Scary Mommy. If you have somehow lived under a cyber rock for the last few years, here's the rundown:

The blog: Scary Mommy: an honest and irreverent look at motherhood — the good, the bad, and the scary. Thousands of moms flock to her site religiously for a daily dose of wit with a side of mom-bonding.

The woman behind it: Jill Smokler, a Maryland mom of three, and the reigning queen of dishing out motherhood's dirty little secrets.  "Erma Bombeck-style insights...about the underbelly of marriage and parenting...to a new generation of women." ...yeah, yeah, yeah... She's funny, she's real, you'll wish she lived next door so you could vent together over margaritas.

Now that we've cleared that up, Jill Smokler wrote a book. A pee-in-your-pants, snort-coffee-out-your-nose, funny kind of book. Confessions of a Scary Mommy, hitting stores April 3rd, is not a highbrow work of literature. It's a book about stretch marks, snot, and shitting on the delivery table. It's also about cutting yourself some slack, having compassion for fellow moms in the trenches, and maintaining a sense of humor as necessary skill for survival. It lifts the sacred veil off the face of motherhood, revealing that none of us really have any clue what we are doing. It's about REAL life.

The book's twenty-seven chapters cover everything from delivery room dramas to competitive birthday party planning.  Each is only a short snippet — kind of like a Reader's Digest or Men's Health article — perfect for a quick read while hiding in the bathroom with a sleeve of Oreos and a shot of tequila.

Each chapter starts with a round-up of "Mommy Confessions," anonymous admissions taken from Smokler's highly poplar blog boards where moms air their dirtiest laundry. Many will make you laugh, some will make you gasp, and most will make any mom nod her head in agreement while shouting, "Hell, yeah!" because, well, we've all been there. (And yes, there's even an App for that.)

As to be expected, Confessions of a Scary Mommy doesn't sugarcoat any aspect of modern motherhood.  If you are not a mom yet, you may be outrageously offended by some of the off-color confessions and candid reality checks. How dare some mothers think these things, let alone say them! These women are EVIL and don't deserve to raise a child! Ditto that on the brand-spanking-new first time moms still jacked up on the delicious new-baby-smell high. They'll fall from their pedestals soon enough, and they will come crawling to this book and to the blog to get them through the day.

If you are a mother and you cannot find something to relate to in the first chapter alone (even if you are afraid to admit it) you LIE. Or you are a cyborg, Stepford Wife, or on some really, really good grown-up drugs.  From the dreaded mommy guilt to aching ovaries and swearing at our children when they act like little shits (in our heads, of course) — we've all been there. And it is an utter relief to realize we are all a part of this vast sisterhood of Scary Mommies.

This book will scare some people — absolutely— there's foul language and feces and brutal honesty.  Confessions of a Scary Mommy may terrify my expecting cousin, but I'll buy it for her because she deserves to know what she's getting into. And for my mom, so she realizes I now understand all the crap I put her through. And for my Mother-In-Law for — nope, never mind — she'd drop this book like a flaming shit bomb at the first "fuck."  She's of the generation who believes some things just aren't said. I think these things should be screamed from the rooftops, so this generation of moms can be saved from a lifetime of self-flagellation and vodka tonics at 10 a.m. They need to know it's okay to not like your children every second of every day, even though you love them fiercely. They are okay. Scary Mommy said so.

The only thing missing from this book was a few more pages. I would have loved for the chapters to be longer, explored in more depth, but then no busy mom would be able to sneak in enough time to read it.  Call me selfish, but I just didn't want Confessions of a Scary Mommy to end.

So buy it. Yourself. It would make a fabulous Mother's Day gift, but you know your husband won't remember, so just put a nice bow on it and call it even. Consider it a belated Push Present.  Because you fucking deserve it.

Confessions of a Scary Mommy
by Jill Smokler
Gallery Books, 208 pages
$10.20 [hardcover] $9.99 [Kindle]

*I won a copy of this book fair and square. I did not receive any monetary compensation. The opinions expressed are my own.  I cannot guarantee a positive review for any product or services, but I can promise a review written with honesty and integrity. Others opinions and experiences with this product may differ from my own.

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Nike Ads & New Atitude

I've flushed the negative attitude and my cold/allergies from my system. After a few rather ornery posts these last few weeks, I figured you deserved something a little peppier. {Not that I do 'peppy' all that often. Nix that. How about more inspirational?}

'Too Cute' baby sloths, puppies, kittens, and Kermit the Frog on a log singing The Rainbow Connection all came to mind. Images of sunshine and rainbows and floppy-eared bunnies would exemplify my improved attitude, right?  Then I read a post by Joann Mannix on the Just Be Enough site and my focus drifted back to the real me.

Last year I posted How Vintage Nike Ads Kept Me Off Prozac. Nike's ad campaign, run over the last two decades, featured brilliant, timeless pieces of copy written not just to convince us to run to the nearest store and buy sneakers, but to empower us.

I've mentioned "JUST DO IT" covers much of my office, on sticky notes and bulletin boards, it's even on a Post-it note on my blog header (I'm not kidding — look up).

I was supposed to start editing my first draft two weeks ago.  In his memoir on the craft of writing, Stephen King recommended burying a manuscript into a drawer for at least six weeks. So I did. I even gave it a few extra weeks for good luck. I let it rest, distanced myself from the words I knew inside and out, and gave it rot or bloom. I'm not yet sure which. Last week I began the process of reading it with fresh eyes,  spotting the gaping holes, inconsistencies, and festering wounds I've created. Now I must learn how to repair them or slice them out with a surgeon's cool finesse.

Unexpected delays popped up, my work delayed — life got in the way.  It's time for me to push my dreams and my manuscript  up on my ladder of priorities. Enough with the excuses. Now is the time I must, I WILL, push all of life's clutter aside, hole up with my manuscript, and bring it to life. I will just do it.

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My Golden (Globe) Boy

Two nights a year I am glued to the television: the Oscars and the Golden Globes.

Around 6 p.m. I mute the TV (Ryan Seacrest and god forbid Joan Rivers grate my last nerve) and settle in to watch the Red Carpet Live pre-shows.  Seriously, it's the only time I get a free pass to act like a catty, celebrity-stalking, fashion-whore. Oh, and I watch because I appreciate the fine arts of acting and movie-making, as well.  

{ahem}

Sunday night I was a horrible mommy and turned on the Golden Globes pre-show during dinner. I didn't want to miss a dress, gem, hairdo, snippet of gossip, or (could we be so lucky?) trip and fall.

Then Kiddo started getting into the show. And commenting.

The outrageously gorgeous and perfectly curved Salma Hayek floated across the red carpet in a stunning Gucci gown. I assumed the Hubby's eyes would be on her. I was not prepared for the 8-year-old's to be as well.

"I like that dress. I think you'd look *damn* good in that dress, Mommy."

I nearly snarfed my chardonnay.

Instead of scolding him for his unacceptable language, I gave him a Nutty Buddy.

I may not win Mom of the Year (like I was even in the running),

but my kid's going to make a brilliant husband someday...

 Because this is what I *really* look like.

I'm linking up with Mama Kat, and sliding this in as #4 (describe the scene at breakfast dinner) and #5 (what brings you joy).

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What posts are you most proud of?

What posts are you the most proud of?

The most popular posts, which may have skyrocketed your numbers and added to your loyal following?

The prettiest posts, filled with gorgeous photos of your stunning kids or faraway travels?

Instructional  posts, clearly explaining some social media guides or a favorite craft or recipe you created?

Topical posts, where you rallied for a cause or pointed out newsworthy injustices?

The funniest posts, guaranteed to make each reader snort coffee out her nose and comment about your wit and wry humor?

Or the candid posts, where perhaps in a moment of crisis or heartbreak you bared your soul through your words, not to please the readers, but to heal a piece of yourself?

If you are a varied writer, your answer may be bits of all of the above.

They are the the posts where your voice rings honest, clear, and true.

Nicole from Moments That Define Life prompted us to list five blog posts we are most proud of.  A few I list below were obvious choices for me, as they received countless comments or appeared on BlogHer. Though I'm positive I could go back and edit these essays for clearer words and sentence structure, I'll let them stand as they are.

 When Grace is Gone: A tale of longing, heartbreak, and acceptance.

 Swimsuit Shopping {Part one: the Grey Hair}: A toddler, a fitting room, and some painfully funny discoveries.

 The "C" Word: A waiting room, a diagnosis, a life flashing before closed eyes.







  

Thrift Store Shopaholic: My favorite frugal fashionista tips to help you find the treasures amidst the trash.

 Killer Whales and Kindness: In the wake of a Sea World trainer's death, a look at our relationships with these captive creatures.







What posts are you most proud of?

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