Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Reasons I Probably Maybe Ought to Go to the Gym:

1. Climbing three flights of stairs to get home
2. Feeling tired--a lot
3. Getting out of bed in the morning, which shouldn't really be that hard
4. Building strength, which I strongly suspect will help my ankle recover
5. Skating with zero stamina
6. Spending $20 a month for a gym membership that I don't use
7. Dancing
8. Aching body parts, pretty much every day
9. Sweating--enough said
10. Jiggling my belly like a bowlful of jelly, which is only okay if I were Santa

My Ass, The Sequel

Paper towels … check.

Shampoo … check.

Birthday card for brother … check.

Pair of jeans … Here we go.

I put off this part of my Target mission until last. My pear-shaped frame—a term I didn't know until it was bestowed upon me while shopping for jeans—was particularly hard to fit.

My plan is simple: lowered expectations. If I don’t emerge with a pair of jeans, no big deal, I’ve accomplished my other goals, crossed plenty off my list.

I navigate the forest of too-close racks overstuffed with cheap clothes. Fortune smiles on me; I only knock one thing down before finding the rack of jeans that will cover my bull-in-a-china-shop ass. I find a dark wash in my size and place it gently in my cart, because that’s how I roll. Next, I add a pair of skinny jeans, because I believe in torturing myself. 

Maybe I’ve been too judgey about the skinny jean. People can change; so could jeans. Everyone wears them; there must be something good about them.

I sidle up to the lone woman manning the dressing room: a factory for naked women squeezing into mass-produced clothing. I can almost smell the frustration and sweat from the Gatekeeper’s booth. She stands, cuddling a gigantic stack of clothing, over which her lackluster, apathetic eyes spy me. With a sigh, she reaches across her desk and hands me a plastic-colored card that she won’t pay attention to later.

Once inside my dim room, I kick off my shoes, pull off my jeans. After a quick glance at the mirror, I rush to cover my pasty, almost-translucent, thigh-touching legs with the skinny jeans.

Noooope.

Hell no.

Fuck no.

I don’t know who these were made for, maybe no one. They take the worst parts of me and magnify them. I look in the mirror with disgust; I’m pretty sure they defy all laws of physics.

Next!

I hitch the other pair over my hips and button the waistband. They’re snug, but I can still breathe comfortably. A good sign. I take a good look in the mirror: top to bottom. I squeeze the roll of fat above my belly button. When did that get there? I remember, like a year or two ago, it was almost gone. Suck in your breath. Does it go away? Not even close.

I turn around, contorting my neck like an owl to check out the view from the back. Fuck! Backfat?

Sneaky bastard.

I mean, knew it was there all along. I could feel it, but to see it up close like this ... Quickly, I move my eyes downward.

Hunh. Look at dat ass. Shapely. Round and juicy. Perky, even. Just to be sure, I turn the other way, ogle it from another angle. Nope; it's true. I have a damn fine ass.

Oh, I am buying these jeans. And every pair in this store.

Jam On It: How to Make Jam

Apple season means jam season in our house. As I share my jamventures with others, I hear over and over how intimidating jamming seems. It's a simple process, really. To demystify it, I offer a primer.

1. Get to work peeling some fruit. Husband walks in the door. Use him to test market your clever "Jam On It" catch phrase.

Crickets.

Keep peeling...

Husband walks past you to the den. Shortly thereafter, you hear the dulcet tones of Bob Marley coming from the other room.

“Very funny!” you yell out. But really, you have jam to make.

2. Good. Peeling's done! Now chop all the fruit.
Now Husband is playing Michael Jackson? You suspect something is amiss. Seriously, though. Keep chopping.

 

3.  Finally! Fruit in a pot! You've been making jam for almost an hour and this is as far as you've gotten? Never mind. Boil that fruit. Boooiiil it...

Husband plays Christina Aguilera. You find yourself singing along, “getcha getcha ya-yas heeeere,” and wonder what the hell that has to do with jam.

4. Meanwhile, the recipe seems to think you should zest a lemon. No problem. Wait. Seriously? The white part too? 

“REAL LADY MARMALAAAAAADE.” Ah.

Now the recipe wants you to chop the fleshy bits of lemon. No parts left behind, I guess. Avoid getting the food processor down at all costs. Maybe your mad knife skills will chop up that lemon pulp nice and fine.

NOPE. Lemon flesh is too fickle. Fine. Use a food processor, but only because you have a baby one.

Use every burner, now.

5. All that boiled fruit is now soft. Your face is shiny and your hair has frizzed beyond all hope, but no matter. Add sugar. More sugar. More…that oughta do it.

6. Go ahead and add the rest of that other stuff and bring the whole thing back to a boil. The recipe says to simmer for half an hour, then it should be ready to set. So, set a timer. Watch an episode of Gilmore Girls (Hurray Netflix!) while you wait. “Where you lead, I will follow…”

Half an hour later. Jam’s not ready yet. Perhaps another ten minutes? (Come on, Rory: Dean or Jess. Just choose one. Sure, we've all seen this before, but enough already.)

Still not set. Maybe another ten minutes?

Twenty minutes now?

It’s been two Gilmore Girls. The recipe is a liar. I declare perjury. Libel? Anyway. LIARS.

7. FINALLY. Jam is ready to can. Pour jam into jars. Use your fancy canning funnel, ‘cause that shit changed your fucking life. 

8. Boil the jars. Remove to counter and savor the satisfying pop-pop-pop-pop-pop of the lids sealing shut. This is the sound of success.

Sure, you line up the jam in parallel lines. How else would you do it?

9. Look around you. You have laid waste to the kitchen. Somehow, you used every fucking dish in the house. Every surface is sticky, including, holy fuck, the floor. What have you done?

All in the name of apples.