What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music? – High Fidelity

At the beginning of the year, I did not make a resolution.  Resolutions are something that I find myself wanting to sneak around, squiggle out of, avoid at all costs.  Because resolutions are supposed to be *good* for me:  and why would I want to do something like that?

Instead, I put out a request:  “Self,” I said, “I would like to have some form of physical activity almost every day.  Working out, walking, pedometering the steps, etc.  It’s supposed to make us healthy, wealthy, and wise; and dude, I really dig those endorphine thingies.”  My self found these thoughts acceptable, and since then exercise or daily movement has been fairly consistent.  Normally I would get up before the little monkeys, turn on my happy lamp, and walk it out with Leslie (“pulling those blessings down from heaven!”  Bless her little, and so healthy, heart).

And then “someone” decided to get competitive by getting up before the mama.  Like an hour before the mama.  And even Leslie‘s positivity can’t pull this tired patootie out of bed at 4:30am.  So these past couple of days I’ve been trying to squish concerted physical effort in where I can:  breakfast times, naptimes, or today the blissful “One child at school, and the not-as-needing-of-social-engagement child at home:  sweet freedom!” time.  Yesterday we The Firmed together, but apparently someone is a gear head and did *not* want to share the other dumbbell, and I didn’t know, but we had assigned fanny lifters that were *not* to be shared.  My bad.

Today we went for a walk around our park.  I had a goal:  we met half of it before Abe started to doze off.  And naptime in the stroller:  not cool.  That creeps into his other Times of Containment which are meant for sleeping and letting Mama sit on the couch and eat bon bons and watch The Dr.’s to figure out which prostate exam is the most effective (for future reference).

I needed to move about more, and I didn’t want to accomplish it by lugging laundry up and down the stairs:  it’s an option, but not a good one.  So I flipped to the ol’ Itunes to find some dancey music.

Today I’ve been craving dancey music since I read about Cinnabon giving away free Cinnabites in honor of tax day.  Obvious correlation on all fronts, yes?  See, in college, when my roommates and I had done all our homework and were good little college students, or at least mediocre college students, we would wake up late Sunday morning, throw on our pajama pants and slippers and hoodies, pile into a car, haul off to the mall to the “Good Entrance.”  Within 15 feet of the entrance we could access Starbucks (venti Mocha Frappuccino), Jamba Juice (really big Aloha Pineapple with immunity boosters), and Cinnabon (extra frosting, please).  I didn’t say I was necessarily at my *heathiest* time of my life, and we usually made up for it by cooking a “proper” chicken and salad and bread dinner (never made the correlation why I felt so much better after dinner and notsomuch in the morning …).

To and from the Good Entrance, we would listen to music:  loud music:  loud pop music.  Because we could, and because it was a wholly new experience for me:  happy music, bouncy music, music that wasn’t written by goth boys with moppy dyed-black hair to match their all-black ensemble that blended into their sinister tomb of dark madness (aka their parents’ garage) as was my previous listening preference (oh, Robert Smith, you’ll still always have a place in my heart).   There were dance moves involved in this happy, peppy music experience, dance moves that I learned, and now have the pride (the privilege, nay, the pleasure) of bestowing them upon the next generation (of course, while their father is at work.  But it’s not like he’s not going to teach them to get their Warren G on:  regulators, mount up).

• So we dance to a little of this.
• And this.
• And he *really* liked this, talking back and waving to the screen.
• And we danced to this, so he could find something that’s more “his generation” (but we didn’t watch:  those shoulder pads are just a little too graphic at his tender age).

Yesterday I was complaining to a friend that Elmo and his orchestra was about to get booted out of my home.  He reminded me of some good kids music, but the pop music, the happy peppy baddy pop music, finally leveled me out.  Of course now I’ll need to temper that with either some Beastie or Vivaldi:  really, it’s a toss up between the two.

• Sweetney

• Scheiss Weekly

So there’s this bigfun (or so I’ve heard) conference happening gathering some of the coolest chick bloggers that this world has been blessed to know: BlogHer 06 is fastly approaching. While I’d totally dig getting to go chat with these amazing, loverly, witty ladies, somehow my bank account has not complied with my desire of it becoming the neverending bountiful stream with which only to take from and never have to give (i.e. not enough buckaroos). Mommybloggers recognizes that many mamas have a more strict time with finances, and so they’re sponsoring a person to go to BlogHer. Rock on!

This morning, as I was hauling my sad patootie around for the eighth lap around the park, I thought, “Man, this whole healthy exercise thing really blows when you do it by yourself.” See, I’m still carrying bebepounds that JJ forgot to take away with him once he was born. It’s been seventeen months – WAY past time for them to leave. So, having engaged in the 10,000 steps regiment, I’m trying to walk my way to health. But it’s not so much fun when you feel like you’re the only one: time to get a little help from my friends (or at least other bloggers who don’t mind sharing the gain and the pain). Sweetney’s heading up an online flab-be-gone challenge: I promptly signed myself up. Bring on the Google Map Mashups: how far we’ve walked, how many YMCA memberships we’ve signed up for and where, where not to drive to find easy access to ice cream, etc.

In a day when parenting and mentoring is more a accidental bi-product of daily interactions, I so greatly appreciate someone being intentional, firm, and caring when instructing. Thanks.

• Zach Braff’s Garden State Blog

• Ugly Dress

Some days you need a little “haha” in your life, either because you have too much “uhoh” or simply because you deserve it.

Eric Conveys An Emotion is a site my co-worker and I found one Saturday afternoon when we didn’t feel like going out to the library book bin to check in books or shelve books or shelf-read books (there *is* a difference) or work in general.  I don’t know who found it or how, but I’m so happy that for over five years I’ve been able to look to Eric when I have an emotion that needs to be conveyed:  he truly is a master.

Zach Braff’s blog was brought to my attention by my brother’s former roommate who used to be a Jewish pizza maker but is now a Jewish news writer (he’s a bigwig!).  The entries are few and far between, but the quality of content makes up for it.  He’s just so funny.

Ugly Dress is a new addition to the list of funny websites.  Having been in a few weddings, I’ve had my fair share of bridesmaids dresses.  And while *all* of them have been absolutely gorgeous of course , I do find a certain humor and empathy in looking at some of the horrific ensembles that are out there.  Thank goodness my friend didn’t make me wear the pregnant prom dress when I was 8/9 months pregnant in her wedding.

So go:  laugh:  haha.