Something Old, Something New

I just read that 80 to 90 percent of athletes cheat on their wives. My first question is how on earth did they get men to admit to that? I assume that even if the survey results are supposed to be completely anonymous, men would still lie. Right? It’s like the penis size survey. Supposedly, the average is six inches, but if you are a guy and you think you have a small dick, are you really going to have it measured? More than likely, only men who believe they are hung like a horse are going to be proud enough to drop trou. Those who are hung like a pony are not going to participate. Same with the number of cheating men – there are always going to be some who lie and some who boast. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle. (And which sports did they measure? Do football players cheat more than basketball players? Surely, hockey players get less action on the side, than say, baseball players?)

So let’s half that number and go with 40 percent of professional athletes cheat on their wives. What woman in her right mind is willing to take on those odds? The pressure of always being thin, well-groomed, pleasant and sweet-tempered, and let me emphasize this – willing to put out, must be exhausting. If the culture is to score as many broads as you score points, then how on earth can the average woman compete? We aren’t even playing the same game.

A normal guy, after a rough day of work, comes home to his wife. His ability to pick up a PYT between the door of his office and the door of his home is probably pretty slim. Sure, there is always the time-dishonored work affair, but since those always leave pretty obvious repercussions (Favre), let’s ignore them in favor of the stranger quickie. The athlete (or actor, or politician, or rich old guy) does not leave the [insert gym, studio, Senate, or office] and head directly home. There are lots of steps in between, i.e., business dinners, hotels, flights, meet-and-greets, etc. The guy doesn’t have to initiate conversation, wine and dine, even really impress a woman – in fact, he might not even have to talk to her directly at all and just have a handler do it for him. They can order a piece of ass the way others order a piece of steak. That’s got to be very, very tempting. Plus, you have to eliminate the natural barriers to complete stupidity – friends. Sure, they’ll take your picture when you are drunk and post it on Facebook, but will they hand you a condom as you go cheat on your wife? A good one won’t, but a paid one? Please. Tiger’s caddy probably kept them in a range of flavors. Add in being on the road alot and what happens in Colorado supposedly staying in Colorado seems like a pretty solid plan.

So, what is a scorned woman to do? She played the odds and lost. Does she rise above (which in celebrity-gossip is almost always the road not taken)? What fun is that? Eva Longoria (I’m pretty sure the Parker is long, long gone) is practically pulling a public Lorena Bobbit on her husband. And why shouldn’t she? It’s humiliating enough to realize your husband is slam-dunking his balls in someone else’s court, quite another to know that it is going to be aired on ESPN.

Cheating is never an accident. I am pretty sure that you can’t trip and accidentally stick your dick in someone. I can’t even imagine the position a woman would have to be in for that to happen. Some clothes have to be removed. The flag doesn’t rise on its own (past the age of say 17). There is a level of premeditation involved that cannot be ignored. Room service and hookers must both be ordered; they don’t just show up at your door. And if you go to as strip club and take home a stripper, it’s a lot like taking home leftovers in a doggy bag – you still paid for the food.

In a perfect world, the sanctity of marriage would be revered, power would not be an aphrodisiac, and sex would not be news. But we don’t live in that world. In this world,” til death do us part” is just another slogan and marriage to an athlete is just another game for the wagering.

And We're Off!

The bet is on! My friend S and I have conferred and decided that we must go to the gym three times per week. If not, we have to pay the other $10. Big ups to S for taking this on with me!

First things first - going to a gym meant joining a gym. Stop one was the big box gym. Gleaming equipment, more televisions than a Best Buy, a sauna, and an enormous playroom (mysteriously empty of toys). After the tour, we sat down to discuss cost. This is where things got shady. First of all, the membership price should not change daily – it’s not the NASDAQ. Second, it should be non-negotiable. The longer we sat, the lower the price. I didn’t appreciate the used car feeling of it all. So, onto the second choice: old equipment, a handful of TVs, no extras, and a small playroom. Obviously, I chose the second one. No joining fee, reasonable membership dues, personal training sessions (with follow-ups to keep me honest), and lots of classes. And did I mention the old ladies? Yeah, I’ll come back to them.

(By the way, during my tours, I also discovered my body mass index. As an FYI, if you are about to freeze to death on an ice planet, slitting me open will indeed keep you warm. I could also be used to make lots of candles or soap, whichever you prefer.)

So today was my first class and I am happy to report that I did not, at any point, need defibrillators. But I swear it was touch and go for a while. My first class was step. Step on, step off. Sounds simple? Not when you have the coordination of a drunken hippo. I tried not to take it personally when the woman behind me left the class early. I think I was making her nauseas with my bobbing and weaving. Luckily, the woman directly in front of me was a friend, though I am not sure this made the fact that I spent the entire class staring at her ass more or less embarrassing. (I was just trying to follow along- honest!) I just couldn’t follow the instructor – she was facing us, so all of her footwork was backward. Since I am the type of visual learner who actually has to turn the map in the direction in which we are going to understand it and who could still use am L and R on my shoes, this was a nightmare. To keep myself motivated, I kept up a steady string of inaudible swearing. I dropped more f-bombs than a Tarantino movie. I also laughed a lot. What else can you do when the instructor calls out, “Be light on your feet” when you can’t even pick them off the ground fully because you are so tired? Or when you are a full two beats behind the music, using the wrong leg, on the wrong side of the step? Or when the little old lady who is twice your age and half your size is not only keeping up, but seems to be barely breaking a sweat and is using hand weights to make it that much more challenging? Laugh. And curse.

Will I be back? Yup. Will I continue to hate it? Yup. Will I eventually stay on the step and not make a total ass out of myself? Questionable. But I will certainly keep trying. If not, I’m going to owe S a whole lot of money.

There Can Be Only One

So this was my first experience suffering through teacher convention week. I still have teacher conferences yet to get through and already I am considering locking my children together in a steel cage and just letting them fight to the pain. (Not to the death, obviously, that would make me a horrible mother, but just to an obscure Princess Bride reference.)

Let me give you an idea of how much time children spend in school this week – in Disney, this seven-day period is referred to as “Jersey Week.” My daughter had school two days out of five (but only attended one day due to a stomach bug). My son had it one day out of two. Their days at school did not overlap. Do you know what this means? It means that I did not get my much needed, deserved, relied upon, and dreamed about four hours off this week. And yes, I realize that since my kids go to bed ridiculously early, that nighttime counts as free time – but with a husband in another state this week, it’s not like I could go run errands or anything. Leaving them home alone is decidedly frowned upon.

It doesn’t get much better as the month progresses. I can’t imagine how much she’ll actually learn in school this month with six days off and six half days. After-school activities also become erratic as everyone tries to adjust to the crazy schedule. Now, I’m a SAHM. A conference in the middle of the day, random dismissal times, and more time off than in is nothing more than a bother for me. Since taking care of them is my job, I can’t really complain about the extra hours. But what about all those parents who don’t have my level of freedom? The ones who are paid hourly? Who only get a handful of days off to try to spread through an entire year? Who only have a certain budget for after-care? November just has to suck for them. Reduced pay checks and pissed off bosses will not make the holiday season any more merry.

So, what to do with kids with endless days off in November? My kids just want to sit on the couch and watch movies. Sounds great in theory, but the execution is the tricky part. Who gets to pick the movie? Pixar or Disney? Scholastic or PBS? My son never sits still for an entire movie, especially once he has seen often. He plays cars by racing them around and around our coffee table while he watches. This means my daughter has to sit herself on the couch and put her feet up on the coffee table – effectively blocking his path. It’s like clockwork. He does A, she does B to piss him off. This hardly makes for a quiet, relaxing afternoon. Instead, it’s like modern warfare. In fact, the longer my children spend in the same room together, the closer we get to visiting CHOP.

I’ve tried to fill the days with fun things, but “The best laid plans of mice and men oft goes astray,” should be the rallying cry of parenthood. No matter what I planned, one child wound up crying, in time out, or both. The main problem is that they are just far apart in age and ability right now that what amuses the youngest bores the oldest, and what amuses the oldest baffles the youngest. The only middle ground is Candyland – and they both cheat.

My new goal is to keep them separated long enough to send them back to school. Because of course, since karma is a spiteful wench, my husband has to work this weekend and I honestly think that if I try to force any more “fun” time on them, it is going to become very Lord of the Flies around here, and I’m Piggy.

The Muffin

Back in college, my friends and I were really into making bets. No, we didn’t wager on sports, or horses, or even the Oscars. Nope, we wagered on each other. Who could hook up with a person first? (Kissing, not sex; we weren’t THAT bad). Who could last the longest during Drinking Uno? Drinking Jenga? The Hour of Power? The most shots? We made a drinking game out of the absolutely atrocious, yet infectious song, Whoomp, There It Is! You get the picture. But, since we were always broke, the bets were small. They usually involved humiliation rather than restitution. Once, they involved both and a truly stirring rendition of Denis Leary’s I’m An Asshole. No matter the end result, they were always inspiring. No one wanted to lose a bet. In fact, in my senior year, I accidentally dyed my very, very long hair jet black. I looked like I had a bad witch wig permanently affixed to my head. When I claimed it was a result of a bet, people just shook their heads at me.

Fast forward more years than I care to count and I am at a crossroads. I need motivation. I need a good old-fashioned bet to get me going. But this time, I need higher stakes. I’ve only got one guy to kiss, I can’t even smell tequila without shuddering, and if I tried to drink my way through Candyland I would find myself joining Sookie in Fairyland. What’s a fat woman to do?

So, I am calling on all my friends both old and new to help turn me from the Stay-Puft Marshmallow mom into Stacy’s Mom (has got it going on). Your goals do not have to be the same. I’d kill most of the women I know for their post-baby look, so think outside the body. What if you always wanted to write a book? Always wanted to scrapbook all of your family photos? Organize them (with names and dates)? Any task, as long as it is long and arduous is a good task.

Then, the sky is the limit on the bet. What have you always wanted but refused to buy for yourself? Try to win it in the bet! What chore do you absolutely dread and secretly wish someone else would do for you? Make it a bet! Make it worthwhile. Make it outlandish. Make it something I would absolutely despise doing or something so pricey that it would kill me to buy it for you (and not for me). Come on, use your imagination. Let’s have fun with this. I know I should just be able to put down the cookie and pick up the carrot, but seriously, if I enjoyed vegetables, then I wouldn’t need to diet, would it?

My husband and I have tried this. However, as a man, he always loses a ton of weight early in the process, then I get discouraged, then he tries to slow down to encourage me, and next thing I know, we are back to ordering take-out instead of making a salad. I’ve tried to motivate myself with things, but since I have to buy them myself and I’m cheap, it is self-defeating.

I am looking to you readers! The Pantless Wonder needs to be able to take her pants off without fear of being speared by a delusional fisherman. I no longer want to be the cautionary whale of what NOT to eat.

So . . . wanna make a bet?