2 things are happening RIGHT NOW.

The princess graduated preschool today. Although they don't call it graduation. They call it Bridging. Something about bridging the gap between Preschool and Kindergarten. I was only half paying attention as Colin kept raising his hand as if we were at the question and answer part of the event

(He also raised his hand when they said they were going to read Dr. Seuss. He wanted to volunteer his oratory services.)

It was  adorable. Natalie sang songs and danced her little heart out.



Natalie and her future husband Weston.



Triple S wasn't home. Long story short but basically Captain Steve is a self serving jerk. (this is one of the reasons he should have his own blog. All tugboats, all the time.)

I videotaped it of course. Like a good parent so that I will be able to torture her one day with her adorableness. When she is old enough to think she is too cool for me I will pull it out and remember when she didn't mind holding my hand.

Oops. Got mushy there for a moment.

Back on topic.

The theme was Beach Party.

Wait, just a bit more mushiness. It was really nice seeing all the kids up there. I'm glad that many of them will be with Natalie at her school next year.

Seriously what is up with my hair? Root touch up time I guess.
And yes my children look nothing like me.

Okay on to my second topic. The part where I confess my insanity.




Yes that is barbed wire but I suppose I shouldn't complain. It could be razor wire.

 I signed up for the Spartan Race. And yeah it is exactly as scary as you think it is. See this is what happens when you start working out again. Crazy people at the gym convince you that this is a good idea. They sweet talk you with promises of matching outfits and mud.

These crazy ladies are jumping over FIRE!!!! Real FIRE!!!
PS I will not be wearing a half shirt. Matching or not.

So here starts my journey to insanity! I have about 10 months.

Two days before my 13th anniversary to Triple S I am going to be wearing some matching outfit with some awesome ladies and trying my best not to die.



Just found this. I can do anything if I get to fight someone!

I think I am going to put a slide show of Gerald Butler on my phone and stare at it while I try and get ready for this.

I know they used makeup to make those 6 packs but who cares?

So if you are at the gym with me and I start yelling about "Madness? This is Sparta." Now you know why.

Mother's Day (Non Dance Mom Edition)

I learned something about myself a few weeks ago. Something I find odd and disturbing.

I'm a prude.

I assume that isn't odd for most but please consider the fact that I voluntarily refer to myself as "the real VD". Sure they are my initials. But I don't need to get so excited about it.

Before I go any further though I think I need to go back a bit.

As summer drew to a close Natalie's obsession turned to dance. She wanted to learn ballet. I searched the surrounding area for a school and selected one that seemed the least terrifying to a person who has never taken a dance class. (this was only because I was unloved as a child and not because I have absolutely no grace whatsoever.)

Ready for her first class.

Lessons began a few weeks later and everything seemed wonderful. As I sat in the waiting room I would chat with the other moms about (what I considered) normal things. Our boys would play video games and talk about angry birds while they waited for their sisters to be done.


Basically it was the complete opposite of all those terrifyingly reality shows.

It is at this point that I would like to point out that I don't watch Dance Moms or Toddlers and Tiaras but their influence is so pervasive that even I can't avoid them when they leak into the MSM. (that's snob talk for Main Stream Media)

I was forced to conclude that the lunatics on the reality show were aberrations and certainly not the norm. I happily continued to believe that until this weekend.

She's supposed to be a dog despite the lamb like qualities of her costume.

After a season of practice we arrived at recital time. On Friday at rehearsal I began to awaken to the idea that maybe I was a little too laid back about this show. My daughter is only 5 years old. I didn't realize that as the kids got older the mom's got crazier.

The phrase "herding cats" comes to mind.

I mean full on standing in the audience screaming about "hip shaking". I started to rethink the idea of dance classes. As we left rehearsal though I told myself I was overreacting. Certainly these moms just wanted their girls to do well tomorrow when the audience would be filled with unfamiliar faces.

That certainly sounded legit in my head.

Then Saturday arrived. Natalie and I headed out nice and early.

I then watched with a sort of morbid fascination as Mom's plastered make up on little girls and reminded them to "shake it". That was when the fear started to settle in.



It's hard to see anything but this was actually the cute part.



Between herding Natalie's class and the multiple trips to the bathroom the rest of kind of a blur. Nothing reached the level of craziness that would warrant a reality show and in the school defense Natalie's teacher is a really nice lady.

All that aside she isn't going back because I'm a prude.


Shocking I know. To no one more than myself.

These are the things you learn if you have a daughter. I'm pretty sure if I only had a son I would have gone on in ignorant bliss thinking I was cool and progressive.

I'm Not Angry you Jackass!

Triple S says I'm an angry person.  All because I yelled at some nob in a topless jeep who spent the entire red light fixing his hair before driving away again.

What was the point? Seriously. And I didn't really yell at him as much as I questioned the point of the mirror check in a sarcastic and snotty tone.


He's so silly. That wasn't anger.

I haven't been angry for at least a week. Not since I went to the wrong place for Natalie's rehearsal and was forced to drive all the way across town during rush hour.

The Princess learned a lot of colorful language that day.

Hold on.

Wheels are turning in my brain. Maybe Super Supportive Scott has a point?

He's a little confused about the details but he might actually be right.

I'm an Angry Driver. Not an Angry Person.

I blame this on Long Island. It's the place I learned to drive in a tiny car with a giant man. (poor Mr. Sackman. It's cruel to make any man over 6 feet sit in an Escort. It should be considered torture to do it to a man while he is teaching drivers ed.)

Never mind about the giant man though.

You cant learn to drive in New York and remain a mellow driver. Well maybe a saint can but I'm pretty sure we all know I'm not a saint.

Triple S will tell you I'm not a good driver but I think he is wrong. (Of course I think that, no one things they are a bad driver, even the truly awful ones.)

I'm a very good driver (just like Rainman). Perhaps I drive a bit fast and perhaps I'm a bit aggressive.

Perhaps. But it isn't my fault that I have places to go and other people seem to be moving at a snails pace.

The south is mellowing me. Slowly but surely they are assimilating me (just like the borg) but I refuse to lose the part of me that loves being first off the red light.

So suck it slow southern drivers. I'm staying angry!

Please Get Me A Time Machine (or the Director's cut of Pulp Fiction)

Monday is my birthday Bitches!

I'm.... &%()8

Oh sorry I must have dropped the keyboard or something. Crazy.

Anyway, as I was saying Monday is my birthday. It isn't a big one or one that makes women freak out, but time is passing. Sometimes I wonder if I should be happy or worried about where my life is.

Should I be lamenting the fact that I still haven't climbed Kilimanjaro? or that I swore by now I would be an expert needle pointer?

What about touring the south of France? (I could finally put to use my awesome French skills. This would be the part where I type the two phrases that I remember from high school but in my attempt to spell check them, google translation is convinced I am speaking Arabic and not french, Told you I was awesome.)

These were never actual goals I set for myself but since I can't remember any real goals I did set as a child I can't really measure if I've done enough by this point.

I can measure myself against my peers but even I'm smart enough to know that never goes well, not to mention is isn't exactly a positive exercise.

On the one hand if I say I'm doing better it is seriously snobby and it I say I'm worse than jealousy must surely follow.

Or coveting. Yeah certainly there would be some coveting and I think that is one of the big 10 no-nos. No need to be doing any of that. Not with all I already do to ensure my trip downstairs.

I'm sure I had goals at one point but since I can't remember any of them that a Time machine would be super handy. (you thought it was in the title because I didn't want to get old didn't you. Silly Gooses)

I sincerely hope it would be a Delorean, but I guess a TARDIS would also work. Either way it would be just a quick trip back in time to see what younger me aspires to be. We wouldn't have to worry about any paradoxes or alternate times lines were the school bully runs the town thanks to a sports history book.

I really have no advice to give to younger me.

Wait, do you think it would break the time code to tell myself that pin curls are not a good look for the junior prom? What about the American Flag Chuck Taylor's?

Even now I want to go online and order a pair.

Certainly there can be no harm in pointing out that just maybe those aren't a good look for anyone but the Harlem Globetrotters?

Hmmmmm

I think I'm having an epiphany.

If there is really nothing I want to warn little innocent me about I must be pretty happy.  Right? That's like the perfect logic statement if I ever saw one.

I guess it doesn't matter that I never mastered the pan flute or learned what the hell was in the briefcase Jules and Vince had to recover.

Life is good and I have to assume that if a younger version of me ever gets a glimpse of her future she would be pleased.

Who knows though. Young me was even crazier that old me. Seriously, there was a point were I was obsessed with Michael Dudikoff.

That is just plain crazy.

Everyone knows Dudikoff was only given the role in American Ninja because Chuck Norris turned it down. (seriously. I didn't even have to make that one up.)