Do you Zumba?

Have you heard of Zumba? Many of my friends across the blogosphere and facebook have tried it now. It's a cardio workout that infuses Latin hip hop, salsa, cha cha, and meringue with American hip hop, belly dancing, and general shakin' your booty. It's not just for women, there's a few guys that dare take classes. At my gym, which is a new gym, Monday night Zumba class usually sells out. By "sell out" I mean more than 60 people join in. It's crazy. I like the Tuesday morning class, the instructor is fantastic and the class isn't so full. Each instructor has their own style, and that's good. Although, we have one instructor who is TERRIBLE. I felt like I was doing nothing but dancing in circles, clapping my hands, and trying to move among all the size -3 teenagers who giggle every time you shake your butt.

Anywho, if you have the opportunity to take a class or go with a friend, I HIGHLY recommend it. It's loads of fun, and you actually burn about 600-800 calories per class, depending on how impactful your instructor is. And guys? Get in there. Where else will you find tons of ladies shakin' their groove thang in spandex? Just be nice and don't drool.

Screw the Rabbit.

I've never been crazy for holidays. Now, my old roommate--who was the youngest of three--said she remembered the exact moment that she found out Santa wasn't real, the Easter bunny didn't bring chocolate, and mom plays the tooth fairy, often in a forgotten rush. And she was devastated. I couldn't tell you when I learned or how it affected me. Now that I have kids, I'm on the fence about all these things.

In school, the Daughter is learning about all holidays. Which made it a little hard to explain that no one other than college students and the true Irish celebrate St. Patrick's day. And that Valentine's day around here is simply another day to remind each other how much we love each other, and it doesn't require chocolate or roses or even cards. And don't even get me started on Halloween, I detest that "holiday."

So as far as Santa goes, the Husband and I made a deal. Our kids know that Mommy & Daddy buy their presents. Credit is also given for Grammy & PopPop and Meme, aunts and uncles, and whomever else provides for our family. "Santa" brings one unwrapped present each. Why do we do this? Because we feel like our kids need to know that we work hard for the things we provide, as does everyone else. Presents don't just come from some guy who sleeps all year, works one night, and takes all the credit. (Yet the Husband wonders why I equate him to the mafia...) It instills in our kids that hard work reaps rewards, and we should be grateful for everything we get.They understand the concept, most of the time.

Which brings us to Easter. Now, we aren't all about religion. Briefly, the Husband is Catholic and I am Methodist; yet neither of us practice our religion, by choice. Which means we don't participate in Lent, nor do we really celebrate Easter. Now, I'm not opposed to going to sunrise service. But to be honest, I'd rather not cloak the whole thing in a lie about how some rabbit appears in the night to hide hard boiled eggs and bring cheap chocolate and peeps. (However, should any rabbits or other varmints willing to bring me Godiva or Lindt chocolates, I fully invite them to be left at my doorstep. And no fruit fillings, please.).

I feel like this mainly because the Daughter is at the age where shortly, she will learn that these "stories" are lies. So I'd rather not deal with the whole cover-up. We teach that this is a no-lies household and that you can tell mom and dad anything. And who's to say my children won't be as heartbroken as my old roommate, you know?

Spirit fingers, anyone?

I was never into cheerleading. I was more the type that played the sports and didn't understand the point of cheerleaders. Of course, my senior year, I was one of the captains of the dance team, and it wasn't until then that I actually understood the athleticism of the sport, but I was never the cheerleading type.

Fast forward to a year and a half ago. The Daughter was ready for sports. We had already tried dance, but she has too much energy for tap or ballet. We tried soccer. I even got her lotto cleats with pink laces. But she didn't like other kids taking the ball away. And then she became friends with the neighbor. Who is a cheerleader. And the Daughter fell in love. She'd go to practices with her (the neighbor is about three years older). She went to games. And she was smitten with cheerleading. So I began the quest to find her a team.

Little did I know that up here, there is no cheerleading for basketball. It's football only. And football season was over. I found a gym, Superior Cheer All Stars. And we went to our first practice. She did good, even if the Son was a huge pain and let everyone in the vicinity know that he did NOT want to be there.

Should it surprise anyone that at the end of her first practice, the coach/gym owner (and ridiculous amount of times-national champion coach) said to me, "She's a natural cheerleader. Your daughter is going to be very good." Of course. Of course, my daughter would be a natural cheerleader. My friends back home with all boys think the irony is hysterical. Me, the epitome of a tomboy, ended up with a girly-girl who is now a cheerleader. And not just a cheerleader, an All-Star cheerleader, meaning cheerleading is the sport itself.

I've now learned, as we are into our second season of competition that there are rules. Every cheerleader must wear a bow. There is an unhealthy amount of hairspray to be inhaled. Glitter gets everywhere. Get used to callouses on your hands, because it is not proper to enter a competition without curls, the tight spiral type. And then, there's the big role: Cheer Mom.

I held out the entire first season. I watched the other moms at competitions whip out their arsenal with no less than three cans of hairspray, personalized curlers, and don stylist's aprons full of combs and barrettes. I did buy the "Proud Parent" shirt, but didn't get a chance to wear it. I've worn it twice this season. However, if you think I'll ever be the flashing-hat-wearing, glitter-stars-on-the-face, mom dancing to the cheer type, you'd be wrong. Should I ever become this mom, who orders her minivan with the cheer edition package with in-seat curling irons, fold-down glitter makeup trays and a personalized megaphone, please take me out back and make me play football in the mud. But I do shake my noise maker, I photograph the team, and I cry when my daughter is on the mat. I participate because teams with the most crowd spirit win more points. And points = trophies. And when you're 6, the big trophy is what it's all about.

First place! Yes, I cried. I may not like cheerleading, but I have a little cheerleader. And how do you not support that? Especially when her team wears dark red and black. At the least, they're stylish.

P.S. I did order the personalized cheerleader sticker. For the Husband's truck. He just doesn't know it yet. =)

Little known facts about the Mama

The Daughter is a very intuitive person. She's the type that notices EVERYTHING. Move the coffee table 2" to the left? She'll move it back. Buy a new shirt? She'll ask how long you've had it and why she hasn't seen it before. Try going a different way to the grocery store? She'll drive you crazy in the back seat asking why we're going this way, and are we going to a new store. So it's no surprise that there's a few things that I do out of the ordinary that just never occurred to me as "different." Lately, since she's been learning to read and write, it's these things she notices as of late. Here's a few:

When writing on lined paper, I write in the middle of the lines. No matter whether it's college ruled or wide ruled. This started sometime in high school, and I don't know why I do it. And if I notice myself writing on the baseline, I move it to the middle of the lines. Strange for a graphic designer, no? She questioned it. And I had no good answer for her.

I usually write in all uppercase letters. Though, in most of my design, I prefer the all-lowercase route. But I often use all-uppercase (as in my blog titles, I recently changed that.) I used to tell the Husband back when I was pregnant that I would teach the Daughter that her name was spelled in all lowercase letters because it looked better that way. He told me to bottle up the crazy and not piss off her teachers.

I love my handwriting and am constantly working on it. Really, if you've seen my handwriting, this should be no surprise to you. In college, everyone wanted to borrow my notes because they are neat. I can't stand messy notes (or anything else, but one battle at a time). But sometimes I change the way I write my G, E, or S. Currently, I'm trying to learn how to write a 9 like it is here. No, I'm not in second grade.

I only like writing in blue pen. I prefer an extra fine rollerball or gel. My favorite pen is a Uniball Vision. But normally, you have to buy the entire color package to get the blue. I'll use red or black, but only after my blue is used up. And yes, I rarely lose pens. Ever. I run them out. And the Daughter knows she's not supposed to use them. Thankfully, she prefers pencils anyways.

I hate cursive. I know it's crazy for a designer to detest a type of face, but I am not a fan of cursive. I used to love it, but I like my uppercase handwriting better. However, often I do write in a cursive-ish handwriting when doing notes. But I hate it. I'll often rewrite a note if I've caught myself writing in this cursive.

Despite loving my all-uppercase handwriting, I always sign my name in all lowercase. My father noticed this back in high school and questioned it. He felt that my name should be the most important on the page, so it should at least have an uppercase first letter. At the time, it was unique, and you know how teenagers are always looking to be unique. I wrote my notes neatly and signed my name in all lowercase letters.

Clearly, I cannot stand messy handwriting. My old roommate had the messiest handwriting EVER. It drove me crazy. But you can't change other people, and it never bothered her. I don't usually let the Husband sign cards or address Christmas cards because his handwriting isn't up to par. And he knows this and lets me be. It's part of our happy marriage agreement. 

So, what does your handwriting say about you?

Dear Annoying Neighbor...

We live in a quiet neighborhood. Now, I don't expect to be able to hear any pins drop, but this is getting old. You have been incessantly working on your "new" vehicle for three days now. I can STILL hear the rod knock from your engine all the way over here, across the street and through the trees, while I sit in my house at my desk. Judging by the looks of it (and the sound), your brand-spankin' new 1983 Ford Econoline van likely died a miserable death sometime in the mid-to-late 90s. Probably sometime around when the exhaust fell off, but I'm just guessing, because it does look as though someone has bubble-gummed it back together at some point in the past eighteen years.

How about we call a spade a spade, and let's stop "collecting" these hunks of junk only to incessantly work on them and then park them in your front yard for sale; only to tell every prospective buyer that you can't seem to get rid of that "tic." However, should you decide to keep at your hobby, why don't you equip yourself with possibly more than a 2 lb sledge hammer, a 3/8" ratchet, and one jackstand, and perhaps you'll get somewhere? I have larger, more efficient tools than that in my pink toolbox.

And if you continue to do nothing but rev your motor to pretend you're really working on this garbage and it continues to backfire any more soot all the way through the trees on to my Cadillac, I will sneak over there in the middle of the morning and put mothballs in your gas tank so perhaps you can walk around it and scratch your head some more. Got it?

Sincerely,
The Mama

p.s. Would wearing pants that fit you be an option? Cause it's got to be cold out there with your ass hanging out. I'm pretty sure my plumber would blush seeing all that.

(Ever wonder why they say eFfing Owners Really Dumb? Seems clear to me.)