You Might Be a Workaholic If....

...When you have to come home from work early because the other four members of your family are sick, whilst those four people are sleeping in various corners of the house you retreat to the garage with your laptop and Blackberry and sit on an igloo cooler and work.

Imitation is the Highest Form of Flattery

Cole is extremely interested in Dr. W and his workings. Every time we visit (usually a well visit for Lila, you know what it's like during your baby's first year!), he's always checking out Dr. W's doctor stuff, from his otoscope to his stethoscope to his Mickey Mouse tie. So yesterday, upon arriving home from getting Mason checked out, it makes sense that Cole would grab his Sesame Street Doctor Kit, and give Mason's lungs a listen.

He's such a precocious little boy--I love him!

The Current Threat Level is Orange

Sometimes things are so funny that you simply have to blog about them.

Here’s a secret about me—I love to read newspapers online and try to make time for it daily. It’s my own little way of nourishing my brain cells when my world is otherwise consumed by motherhood.

Today I was perusing the NY Times web site when I came across this little gem of an article. It references the lovely toy you see above, an airport security checkpoint Playmobil toy. All you moms out there, especially those of boys I’d imagine, are probably quite familiar with Playmobil, and many days my living room is a veritable graveyard of Playmobil guys. The more popular toys are those involving pirates, knights, or dinosaurs, but they also have many “real life” toys to help kids use pretend and imagination to understand things. This is intended to be the latter.

At first it struck me as odd to have a security checkpoint toy. Then upon reading the article it struck me as hilariously funny. (My favorite part of this toy is that the little guys don’t have removable shoes—that’s the quintessential checkpoint P.I.T.A.!! What kind of checkpoint toy doesn’t include guys with removable shoes?)

Soon my laughter turned to sadness that it’s become such a part of our lives and society that a toy like this is even relevant and that “security checkpoint” is such a part of the lexicon. But then I went to Amazon.com and started reading people’s reviews of the toy, and my laughter returned.

Here are a few samplings of the funny reviews in case you’re too short on time to root through them all like I did. But if you need a chuckle, feel free to head on over and check them out for yourself. There’s something for everyone!


“This toy would be a lot more realistic with about 350 people standing in line for an average of an hour. It still makes a nice set with the interrogation room.”

“This toy is a wonderful start but...I think expansion packs would really increase the enjoyment. Could you imagine the fun kids could have with the "Mother forced to drink bottled breast milk to prove it's not explosive" expansion, the "What do you mean I'm the No-Fly List?" and especially the "Body Cavity Search, Wait, What?" set.”

“Thank you Playmobil for allowing me to teach my 5-year old the importance of recognizing what a failing bureaucracy in a ever growing fascist state looks like.”

Another fun part of my trip to Amazon.com was reading the manufacturer's description of the toy:

"The woman traveler stops by the security checkpoint. After placing her luggage on the screening machine, the airport employee checks her baggage. The traveler hands her spare change and watch to the security guard and proceeds through the metal detector. With no time to spare, she picks up her luggage and hurries to board her flight!"

Okay, I can't believe they made the madness that is going through security sound joyous and fun!!

And seriously, that Playmobil person is a woman???

Heavyset to Hardbodies ... and everything in between

I’ve been frequenting the gym long enough to observe that there is an interesting ecosystem within it. And just as with any other, this ecosystem has defined clicks and even a definite pecking order, as well as a few odd ducklings. Once you enter the gym doors, it’s as if you’re stepping through a threshold into a parallel universe… it is literally its own little world.

There are several different groups of people divided amongst the various sweaty corners of the gym.

First, there are the Cardio Queens. They are usually drop dead gorgeous, painted with a full face of makeup, and adorned in perfectly matching workout clothes. The upper echelon of this group sports long, flowing locks that she doesn’t dare pull back into a pony tail (it’s so odd seeing someone on a treadmill with their hair down to their waist, I dare say it’s unnatural). Rarely do they exercise hard enough to break a sweat (their flat stomachs the result of tummy tucks, not toning), and they can often be seen socializing with other C.Q.’s on the treadmill. I’ve even seen one treadmill reading that she’d been walking for 30 minutes and only traveled a mere .5 mile. C.Q.’s are usually in the gym for about three hours in order to complete their 30 minute workout because pesky socializing gets in the way.

The archetype to the Cardio Queens is the Hulks—Big, burly men who grunt when they do their reps. They don’t walk, they strut, and their arms stick out at a 45 degree angle because of their enormity. I think they are all in a major competition with each other to see who can develop the biggest bulging vein amongst their collections of bulky muscles.

The Hulk’s female counterpart is Mrs. Hardcore. These are women who without long hair and sports bras would be confused as men. They don’t just have a six pack; they have an 8 pack, even a 10 pack in extreme cases. They only relax when they’re in the tanning bed, otherwise they are performing some sort of training. And no doubt, they are juiced up on some sort of illegal overseas pharmaceuticals, because it just ain’t natural to look like that.

Next, there is the yoga group. They perch upon their mats, spending a luxurious hour stretching and contorting into various poses. Never before have I met calmer people than the die hard yogis. Calm, peaceful, low talkers, they always seem focused on the miracle of their Zen. Everything I strive to be but alas, am not.

On the complete other end of the spectrum are the Spinners. They do everything fast-- they talk fast, they walk fast, therefore they burn calories fast. And if you watch them during a spin class, you can tell they are pushing themselves so far that they almost might die, but don’t. I’m always waiting for someone to stroke out and fall off a bike, but it hasn’t happened yet. And within this group, it’s a true badge of honor to have puddles of sweat collecting beneath you.

Then there is a special specimen, “Naked Old Lady in the Locker Room” (NOLITLR for short). I mean seriously, why can’t she just be “Old Lady in the Locker Room” – why must she be naked? And when I say old, I mean old. Just today I walked into the locker room and NOLITLR was right by the door. I was not at all prepared for that. This is a pretty big locker room we’re talking about, with at least 15 sinks, and she chooses to take her nakedness to the one that’s right by the door to wash her hands. What boggles my mind is that she often has a towel wrapped around her waist (which I appreciate, really I do)—why not boost it up and cover up the Girls too? It is a locker room, and I suppose it’s an appropriate place to be naked, but there’s nothing wrong with being dressed either. Her exhibitionism amazes me. You’d think she was a hot chick the way she prances around, but nope, she’s NOLITLR. Today I was granted to special treat of listening to NOLITLR’s conversation with another old lady—they were talking about vertigo. NOLITLR, if you’re prone to passing out, perhaps you shouldn’t be traipsing around naked. Could you imagine if the paramedics had to haul you out on a stretcher, buck naked?

And lastly (a recent addition) is the New Year’s Resolution clan. They really have no typical physical definitions as they are all ages, sizes, and include those in both sexes. They clog the gym for the month of January, staring at machines they can’t figure out and lifting free weights in an awkward, improper fashion, generally making you insane. They hog up the spin passes only to quit ten minutes in, leaving those who might actually want to take the full hour to settle for an hour on the treadmill. Oh, and P.S. -- putting the treadmill incline at Level 7 and hanging on the the handlebar for dear life while your legs chase after you... doesn't count as exercise. No worries though, they’re gone by Valentine’s Day, no doubt curled up somewhere with a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates.