When I was a freshmen in college I started dating a boy sophomore. Without really getting into that toxic relationship right now, let’s just cut to the chase; Crusher and I dated most of my freshman year. We both moved back home that summer which was about three hours away from each other. The next year Crusher transferred to a major university quite a few hours away from the college I was going to.

Thus began my first official Long-Distance-Relationship.

Guess what? They suck.

I didn’t even really like Crusher, and it still sucked. I hated having to someone work my weekend-only job around driving the gazallion miles to spend a Saturday night with Crusher. Now my situation might have sucked even more since Crusher, for whatever reason, didn’t drive. (At all. I know!!) And he didn’t have a job. This meant that if we did do something that required spending actual money while we were together, I was paying for all of it. (Did I mention that I was also in school and trying to pay for what I could?)

I hated feeling the pressure to do well in school, work a part time job, and maintain my first real relationship. I hated trying to get my laundry done during the weekdays so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it on the weekend. I hated having to go without food so that I could afford to put gas in my car. I hated having to drive the hours to see Crusher after I got off my waitressing shift on Friday night. I hated trying to squeeze some roommate/college/study/family time in the middle of all of this.
And really, I didn’t even like this guy. I just didn’t know how to break it off with him. I was young and immature. And again, first real relationship.

In case you hadn’t heard; winters in Utah are brutal. And while I pretty much learned how to drive in the snow before I learned how to walk, it still wasn’t a great idea for me to be driving over the mountain pass from my small town college dorm to Crusher’s university dorm every weekend.

Blah, blah, blah, Crusher was a tool, blah, blah, blah, and an idiot. Blah, I finally broke up with him.

And then I vowed to never ever again have any part in a long-distance-relationship. I made a promise, to myself, and the God’s in Heaven (and my friends and family) to only date boys that lived within 15 miles of my parents.

While I spent less money on filling up my car, the boys that lived closer to home weren’t any less tools then Crusher was. (Maybe the dating years between like 18 and 24 are laden with idiot boys?) (Ah-ha, I’m on to something!) It was nice to not have to worry about driving over a mountain pass to visit my latest boyfriend, but still, boys….blah.

I used to go to The Big City to go dancing or to clubs, but I never met a guy there that I was going to date. Dude, I was very serious about my vow. No long-distance boyfriends. None at all.

My first husband literally lived less then a mile from my parents house. He was like an answer to my promise to the God’s to never partake in a long-distance-relationship. It was like I married him because he lived close by. I was lazy. I didn’t want to have to drive or rearrange my work schedule to spend time with my fellow.

After my failed first marriage, I must have realized, on some level, that this “staying close to home” dating plan wasn’t really working for me.

Enter The King and the 1400 miles between us when we met.

Thankfully that long-distance-relationship didn’t last long because I just packed up my life and moved closer to him. Easy, breezy.

(Yeah, not easy. And not really breezy either. But whatever. It’s been 8 years and we’re still here.)

My cousin, who is twenty, just got a new boyfriend. She slept over a few weeks ago (while The King was away on business) and spent the entire evening gushing over her new boyfriend. He seems like a very nice guy. He’s cute and going to college and has a nice family and is good to my cousin.

The thing is, this new boyfriend is going to university about four hours away from where my cousin is going to university.

She’s been drying the super duper long drive out to visit him every other weekend. Just thinking about this makes my heart ache and my butt hurt (that’s a lot of time sitting in a car). New relationships are always fun. Those first few months with a new person are magical. But dude, I don’t envy her.

Because seriously, I’m just too darn lazy to drive that far for a boy. The whole scenario brings back too many bad memories for me. Memories of not being appreciated and putting all my efforts and eggs into one basket.  And then having that basket run over by a Mac truck.
It’s times like these when I’m thankful that I’m married and that The King lives close enough to me that when I roll over in bed, in the middle of the night, he’s always there.

So tell me, even had a long-distance-relationship? How was it for you?

The spring of my freshman year an open meeting was held for the high school track team. I had always loved running and so I stayed after school and attended the meeting. Everyone who attended that first meeting became an official member of the high school track team.

Track practice was held everyday, after school, up at the high school. I would ride the school bus to the high school, change into my new Nike Air shoes, shorts and a t-shirt and walk out to the track field. The coaches used this time to assess who could do track events the best. The boys all wanted to do pole vaulting or the long and high jumps.

I just wanted to run fast.

I spent that track season running my little fourteen year old heart out everyday after school and on the weekends. There seemed to be a track event every week and I anxiously awaiting all of them. I ran the 100 meter dash. My parents came to every track event and supported me from the bleachers.

That year, the track team won the state championship.

While I enjoyed running track, I quickly realized that I wasn’t a very fast runner. I also realized that I didn’t fit in too well in “team sports”. I continued to run almost everyday, but come the next year, I didn’t try out for the track team.

My sophomore year, still sort of interested in playing some type of sport, I tried out for the high school volleyball team. Tryout outs were nothing like the track tryouts where everyone made it. Volleyball was a little more serious. And strenuous. It lasted all week. Again, I wasn’t too confident in my athletic abilities, but I made the team.

I knew it my heart that I only made the volleyball team because my dad was a teacher at the school (who also coached in his spare time), and the volleyball coaches didn’t want to disappoint him. I tried to act like I made the team because I could jump higher then anyone else on the entire team. I tried to act like it was because I was the only one of the sophomore team that could over hand serve. But the truth was, I felt under qualified and out of place.

I’ve never been able to adequately explain it, but I’ve just never felt like I fit inside my body right. It’s like there isn’t any fluid communication between my brain and my limbs. I have no coordination, no skill, and basically no confidence. This makes doing anything athletic and physical unnerving and uncomfortable.

I played volleyball that season and I truly did enjoy it. Sure the girls and I didn’t become fast friends. Sure I wasn’t good at volleyball at all. Sure I hated the after school practices. But overall, it was a fun time.

The volleyball team won the state championship that year. Seriously, no thanks to me at all. It was thrilling to be a part of another winning team. But it was also embarrassing to know that I had absolutely nothing to do with the win. I got to ride into town on a firetruck, but I knew I didn’t belong there.

I knew I wouldn’t be playing again the next season.

The volleyball season was over and the school year was coming to a close. I rarely gave any thought to volleyball. The other girls on the team continued to hang out together. They ate lunch together. They spent their weekends together. They walked through the halls together. While I don’t think they were trying to leave me out, I never hung out with them outside of games and practices, not even a simple wave or smile took place between me and any of my teammates.

While I didn’t care about waving goodbye to my chances to play team sports, my dad did care. He never said it, but I knew he wanted one of his kids to excel at sports. I was, honestly, his only hope. And I wasn’t much of a hope. That summer off from school, I kept up my running but I didn’t attend the volleyball workshops. I knew that attending the workshops was pretty much mandatory if you wanted to keep playing at the high school level. But remember, I didn’t really want to play.

Volleyball tryouts took place the first week of the new school year. I told everyone around me that I wasn’t going to try out. But secretly, to make my dad happy, I decided I would try out. I just wouldn’t tell anyone.

And so I lied to my family and friends about where I was going after school, I packed up my gym bag with my volleyball uniform and shoes and hid it in my car. I showed up at tryouts and ran laps with my previous teammates, worked on my rolls, and hit ball after ball.

During tryouts I quickly realized I wasn’t going to make the team. My dad being a teacher at my school only held so much clout, and it wasn’t enough to compensate for my mediocre athletic skills. At the end of the week a list of those who made the team was posted. I didn’t even have to look. I knew my name wouldn’t be on the list.

I wasn’t sad that I didn’t make the team. I really wasn’t. But I was upset that I let my dad down. I was also hugely embarrassed that I was the only person that had tried out, but didn’t make the team. I knew it, and the rest of the girls knew it.

And so ended my foray into the world of physical abilities and athletic prowess. I walked away, and never looked back…

…until now.

I’ve been back on the Weight Watchers wagon for almost a month. And while I’m happy with my current six pound loss, I’ve known all along that at some point I was going to have to start actually doing some sort of physical activity. I knew my daily walks to and from work and Babboo’s school weren’t going to be enough. I knew I would have to do something physical and athletic.

I woke up a little earlier then normal this morning and devoted 10 minutes of my day to my flabby abs via my “10 Minute Solutions Pilates” DVD. I know it isn’t a lot and that a measly 10 minute work out isn’t going to do that much. But it’s a start. And knowing myself as well as I do, I know that this is a good place to start.

Too bad I don’t have anyone around that will join a gym with me. It sure would be more fun to have someone to do this with.

So tell me, am I the only one that feels inadequate when it comes to any type of physical activity? And if you are the type of person that likes to be active, what types of activities do you enjoy?

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Don’t forget to head over to SeattleMomBlogs to enter all of their awesome Earth Day give-aways. They are giving away Method Baby products, Belli skin care products, a gDiaper Starter Kit, and even a book to help you live a Greener life.

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And don’t forget to set your VCR/DVR/TiVo to record the Tonight Show this Thursday night!! The Old 97’s will be preforming and promoting their new album (hitting stores May 13th). It’s called “Blame it on Gravity” and by the sounds of it, it’s going to knock your socks off.

While at a the Seattle Green Festival Saturday night I looked around and saw all the different types of people that were there, either as exhibitors or attendees. It was noisy and busy in the Convention Center, and yet I found myself quietly waking around. I stopped to look at a booth showcasing recycled rubber shingles and while reading their display I glanced up and made eye contact with the guy manning the booth.

For a brief second I thought it was my first husband.

He smiled at me, and I smiled back. I wasn’t sure what it was that made me think this stranger was a man I was once married to. Was it his blue eyes? (Did my ex even have blue eyes?) Was it his short, blonde hair? (Did my ex have blonde hair?) Was it the clothes he was wearing? (Was my ex now a hippy?) Was it his age? (Way my ex still 24 years old?)

While I don’t look at every strangers face to see if it’s the ex, I do occasionally walk by someone and, for a second, think it might be him. The people that make me take a double take are usually guys in their early 20’s who resemble what I remember my first husband to look like on our wedding day. In my mind, he looks the same.

This weekend I realized that if I were to run into my ex, I’m not sure I would recognize him. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve laid eyes on him. He’s in his 30’s now. He’s, most likely, all grown up. He’s probably a little heavier and maybe balder. He’d probably be surrounded by different people then when I knew him. He’d probably have different tastes and probably wouldn’t be wearing the same Silver Tab jeans I remember him in. He’d also, probably, be with his new wife.

While I realized that I probably wouldn’t recognize my ex-husband, I also realized that he probably wouldn’t recognize me. While visiting my family a few years ago, I walked past my ex-mother-in-law at the grocery store. She walked right past me. She was either snubbing me, or she didn’t even recognize me.

I was 22 years old when I met my first husband. That was a long time ago. Back then I had short hair. More specifically I had short, blonde hair. I also hadn’t had my adult braces yet, and was walking around with my snaggle teeth. Styles were different then and I didn’t go anywhere without my shirt tucked in and a pair of Dr. Martins on my feet.

My the time our marriage was over, I was 23 years old. Pretty young in the grand scheme of things. I was nowhere near finding my own style or being comfortable in my skin. My hair was back to it’s original color and was a more desirable length. “Friends” was all the rage at this time, as was The Rachel hair cut. I had long, fake nails that were always perfectly manicured. And most importantly, I didn’t wear my glasses yet.

(This picture of me and my siblings was taken minutes after I signed my final divorce papers. It was my mom’s Mother’s Day gift that year.)

I’ve heard of ex’s that have remained in each other’s lives after they’ve divorced.  I’ve heard of people that can work through their issues and remain close after they’ve divorced.  I don’t think it’s that unusual for an ex to know and be friends with a former spouses new spouse.   But for me and my ex, we’re pretty much dead to each other.  Our families, while they live within a mile of each other, have no contact with each other.  Our siblings are no longer friends with one another.  I don’t know my ex’s new wife and he and The King have never been within 10 miles of each other.

But, if by some chance we were to run into each other, I  would be happy to smile and say “hello”.  I wouldn’t be against catching up with him for a few minutes.  But after thinking about this that last weekend, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even recognize him.

It’s been just too long.

And, for me, that’s fine.

So tell me, how different do you look now from your 23 old self?
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The winner of my free gDiapers give-away is….

…Marilyn over at Slackermama, who said:

Heck ya! I would love to try these out. I’m currently up to my eyeballs in disposable diapers and am starting to feel a tad guilty about the impact just my family is having on the environment these days. Perhaps this is the answer?

Congratulations to Marilyn (who has a sweet new baby girl), and thanks to the other 100 of you who entered.

When she was a senior in high school, my mom started taking classes at the local community college to become a stylist beautician. As soon as my mom graduated from hair design school beauty school , she left her small town and moved to an even smaller town and set up shop at the local salon beauty parlor. My mom enjoyed doing hair and really loved her new career.

What she didn’t like is that she ended doing “sets” for all the older ladies in town.

My mom quickly moved to a big city and got a job at a nicer parlor. And then she met my dad, got married, got pregnant, quit her job and stayed at home with her kids. While my mom is still a licensed beautician, she hasn’t worked in a salon in over 35 years. But she has continued to do hair.

No family vacation was ever taken without my mom bringing along the little blue velvet bag she made that housed all of her hair supplies. She needed these supplies so she could cut the hair of all my aunts, uncles, cousins, and so she could set my grandma’s hair. (My mom is coming out to visit next week, and I can promise you she’ll bring her scissors with her.)

My mom gave me my first hair cut right after my third birthday. She clipped my hair up with the same clips she uses today. I sat on the kitchen table and tried not to cry as she cut off my long hair. I would wear that same “Dorothy Hamil Wedge” cut until middle school. (And by the looks of this picture, so did my older brother!)

The summer before 5th grade, my mom gave me my first (and only) perm. She only permed my bangs and I loved it. She also gave my older brother a perm, after months of him begging for curls in his hair. I was about twelve year old when my mom first showed me how to henna my hair. My mom’s the one that cut 6 inches off my (way too) long hair, just in time for the Preference Dance my junior year. My best friend Marci stood by her side and offered her support. (Love the bow in your hair, Marci!)

During the summer months my mom would line up my dad, brothers and all my guy friends and cut their hair under our carport. In the winter, this ritual would take place in our kitchen. I don’t think any of the neighborhood boys ever had to pay to get their hair cut, as long as they were friends with me.

I was about 21 when I went to a salon and had my first professional hair cut. By that age I demanded more of a styled cut, which was something my mom wasn’t confident doing. I forked over my $20 for the hair cut and never looked back. From time to time, in a pinch, my mom’s trimmed my hair, or helped me with a color. She still cuts my dad and uncle’s hair, and my grandma loves it when my mom does her set. Over the years my mom’s saved us all a lot of money with her at-home cuts. She’s also given me a lot of fun memories.

It makes me a little sad that my mom wasn’t here last weekend to give Babboo his very first “big boy haircut”. I would have rather seen her arms in this picture then the barber’s hairy arms.

Babboo will have plenty more hair cuts in his lifetime, and more chances for my mom to continue on with the tradition of at-home family hair cuts.

But until then, well, The King and I are still trying to get used to this new little guy with the Owen Wilson inspired do. But we’re the only ones, since Babboo’s loving his new hair cut.

So tell me, do you remember who cut your hair when you were a little kid?

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And if you haven’t yet, you have until FRIDAY to enter to win my gDiaper give-away. Even if you aren’t in the need for flushable diapers, Gdiapers make great gifts. So enter today. And tell your friends to enter!

Did this week’s “Biggest Loser” blow your mind? I know I was shocked. Head over to WeHeartTV to read what I have to say about this week’s episode and next week’s season finale.

Twice a year the LDS (Mormon) church holds a world-wide conference for all of it’s members. It’s called General Conference, and it’s typically held in April and October every year. General Conference is held at the (newly built) Conference Center in Salt Lake City, Utah. While the Conference Center seats over 21,000 people, that isn’t enough. Plus, most Mormons don’t even live in Utah. (Shocking, I know!)

General Conference is meant for all members of the the LDS church to attend. But dude, we all can’t travel to Utah twice a year to do so. Because of this, all of the four two-hour sessions of Conference are broadcast via the internet, radio, and television. That’s right, anyone can watch them from the comfort of their own home. (Check your local cable listings for BYUTV.)

Being as I’m a member of the LDS church, I look forward to General Conference weekend. Normal Sunday church isn’t schedule, and instead we stay home to watch Conference on TV. It’s a time when we to listen to the wonderful messages from our Prophet, and other leaders of the church. They tell stories, teach doctorine, and share their testimonies.

The icing on the cake is that you get to do this all on your couch, in your jammies.

As a child, I admit, participating in General Conference wasn’t as anticipated. In fact in my family we commonly referred to Conference weekend as “church vacation”. It was the weekend we could pack up the trailer and head down to Zion National Park, or some other camp ground. We didn’t have regular church on Sunday, so we weren’t needed to teach our Sunday school classes (or any other responsibilities my parents might have had).

Plus, if we missed what was said during Conference, we could always catch the archives that were published later. (Check out all the languages Conference is translated into. Dude, I don’t know what language “Shqip” or “Hmoob” are, but I think it’s amazing that the LDS church is so prolific in languages.)

I’m not sure how old I was when I first realized that hey, Conference is pretty freakin’ cool! I’m not sure when, or why, the change happened, but I’m glad it did. No longer do I think of Conference weekend as a “church vacation”. I don’t think about where we can go that weekend. Instead, I’m excited about what messages will be shared with me. I look forward to being taught by amazing people, who have been called to be messengers of the Lord. I want to know what they have to say. I want to feast on their words.

Now that I have a toddler, who demands my attention, it’s a little harder to devote 8 hours of a weekend to watching a talking head on the TV. Unfortunatly, looking at this for 8 hours will not hold Babboo’s attention like it will mine:

During the weeks leading up to the latest General Conference I received about 12 million e-mail forwards all containing the same thing; an activity packet to help kids be a little more entertained during Conference. I reluctantly printed out the packet, even though I knew it wasn’t for someone Babboo’s age. I figured, at the least, he would enjoy coloring the word-searches and hidden picture games.

Babboo ended up really enjoying the Conference activity packet. He colored on the pages of past prophets of the LDS church. He even got out his paper punch (which he refers to as “scissors”) and made a few little hole punches. By the looks of this picture, Harold B. Lee seems to be his favorite.

While the activity pack did hold Babboo’s attention, for a bit, it also, surprisingly enough, held my attention. I loved the pages which allowed me to take notes of what the different people spoke on. Plus, I got to color the little ties to match the ties they were wearing. (Too bad I don’t have a color scanner at work!)

Okay, so I didn’t take too many notes, and I did miss a few of the speakers. But that’s only because I got caught up on my ironing. And it’s pretty hard to iron and take notes at the same time.

That’s okay, I can always catch the archives.

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Don’t forget to enter my gDiaper give-away, for a chance to win some of their awesome flushable diapers. Just leave a comment on THIS POST.

And did you see my latest New Things post about using Monistat gel as a foundation primer, for your face? Readers are using it and reporting back in the comments (and via e-mail). General consensus? It rocks.

Now that Babboo is a little older, he’s been asking to “me walk” and not just ride around in his stroller. While I don’t blame him for wanting to live life a little more independently, him walking does make our daily walk home from school a little longer and more stressful. A few days a week we continue to use the stroller, just so he won’t totally shun it when we all go to Europe this September (dude, he will have to be in his stroller over there). This means that the other days in the week are spent sans stroller, with me saying things like “walk faster” and “I can’t hold you, you’re too heavy!”

Last week I decided I wanted to document our daily walk home from Babboo’s school for my mom. My family totally lives out in the middle of nowhere and I thought she would get a kick out of seeing Babboo navigate he way around the bus tunnel (Seattle’s smaller/cheaper version of an actual subway system).

Before I walked into the school, I pulled out my trusty camera and prepared for picture taking. I put the rest of my stuff in my backpack so I would be hands-free and be prepared for all the awesome shots I was sure to get.

And then I noticed my kid, standing in the corner with some toys. I said, under my breath “what the hell did you dress him in this morning King?” I figured, while in a hurry, The King had hastily thrown an old pair of jeans on Babboo. Upon closer inspection I noticed the pants seemed to be a little short and also flared-legged. Upon even closer inspection I noticed the back pockets had little flowers embroidered on them, with glitter thread.

My kid was wearing little girl capri pants.

“Mr. Babboo had an accident today. We didn’t have any spare pants for him to wear”, said his teacher.

You don’t say.

Oh well, I was prepared to document our walk home and no pair of little girl, flare-legged, glitter covered capri pants (size 12M!) was going to thwart these plans.

We made out way out into the heart of downtown Seattle. Babboo started walking, and I started taking pictures.

The poor kid was oblivious to the state of his ensemble.

Every time I stopped him to pose for another picture, I laughed even harder then before. Was it the fact that he had no idea that his front pockets weren’t it the right position? Or was it that he was wearing his tough new skater shoes with capri pants?

I wondered if I was a bad mom for insisting on taking pictures that particular day. Should I have waited until he wasn’t wearing little girl pants to preserve this memory? Should I have not even allowed my kid to wear girls pants in the first place? I’m not sure what the protocol is on that. Crap, is there even a protocol to letting your son wear little girl pants?

Oh well. Neither one of us seemed to care. We were too busy taking pictures of us together while we rode the bus home.

So tell me, what’s your commute home like?