Lest you fear that I do not think of you, Dear Reader, in my off hours, let me assure you otherwise.  I did something this weekend specifically because I thought it would be good blog fodder.  I was coerced into attending an event for the sole reason of your entertainment at reading the write-up.  And you owe me, big.

I saw “Sesame Street Live” at the Lowell Civic Auditorium.  And I’ll never get those two hours of my life back.

My other single-mom friend Janice began asking me to attend said event over a week ago.  I hemmed and hawed, figuring I’d eventually be able to come up with some reasonable excuse to avoid sitting in a theater full of screaming toddlers and paying $8 for a giant Elmo-head balloon (that was the actual price: eight dollars.  For.  A.  Balloon.).  But as Janice dutifully searched the Ticketmaster Web site at midnight the night before, and I still hadn’t come up with a single argument against it – besides, you know, adamantly not wanting to go – I finally conceded and let her book the tickets (if for no other reason than it was midnight, and my daughter gets up the same time every morning no matter when I go to sleep).  I thought, hey, at the very least, it will make an amusing blog subject.  So the tickets were purchased.  Fifty bucks total for me and my two-year-old.  No kid discount price.  Sesame Street knows they own you.

As Sunday arrived snowy and bitterly cold, I cringed at the thought of bundling us up and risking life and limb on Route 3 to get to Lowell (Massachusetts state motto:  “Welcome to Massachusetts: Kiss Your Wimpy, Safe-Driving Ass Goodbye”).  But Janice came to my house with her spare carseat, installed it in my car, and the four of us were on our way.

After trudging through the still-falling snow and brutal temperatures to the Civic, we found that our seats (Parquet, Section K, second row) were actually quite good.  They were on the far left of the auditorium, but because of that, they were pretty close to the stage.  The place was sold out, but the crowd of under-5s were surprisingly non-psychotic as we waited for the show to begin.  Punctually-challenged as we were, we only had to wait about one minute, until a seven-foot-tall Bert came through the mylar-ribbon curtain.

And then the kids went insane.

It was the Beatles on Ed Sullivan all over again.  This giant Muppet was getting more screaming adoration than I thought possible.  Until Ernie came out.  And then Big Bird.  And then… well, a couple I don’t know.  But they saved the big guns for last:  Elmo.

Now, keep in mind that the last concert I went to was Rush, several years ago.  And despite our fervent love for the world’s best power trio of prog-rock, none of us were shrieking “GEDDYYYYY!”  or “ALEX!” or “NEAL!”  (OK, I probably did scream “NEAL!” at least once.).  These toddlers were chanting “El-mo!  El-mo!”  The kid behind me was absolutely losing it.

Our two girls were just staring, mesmerized.  I’m not sure they knew what to make of giant Muppets singing and dancing in front of dozens of rainbow lights.  I think the promoters were playing fast and loose with the expression “technically-dazzling.”

The show itself was… jaunty.  Super Grover loses his, well, superness, and spends the rest of the show trying to find it.  Sort of a “How Grover Got His Groove Back” for the preschool set.  Along the way, we heard songs about eating right, exercising, getting enough rest, and hygiene (with a running joke about Oscar the Grouch’s mudfish named Gene, who’d always say “hi, Oscar!” after someone said ‘hygiene’). 

It was all good, clean fun, except… well, call me a cynic with way too many gay friends, but… there were a couple jokes that I know were clearly NOT for the children.  To wit: Tully the Monster’s superhero alter-ego is Triangle Boy (ahem), whose crisis occurs at… the gym.  Where Ernie, Bert and the Count are working out to techno music under a disco ball.  Ahem.  Tully also cops to knowing a guy who “wears a feather boa.”  Ahem.

I also enjoyed Cookie Monster’s self-loathing when one of the other monsters asks “what are you doing?”, to which he replies “Is that trick question?  Me eating cookies.  What else is new?”  I feel ya, CM.

I had thought that Janice had told me the show was only 45 minutes long (which made sense to me, given the target audience’s age and attention span).  When I found out it was 45 minutes and then an intermission, and then another 45 minutes, I felt like I did a decade ago when I went golfing for the first time and, sunburned, sweaty and cross, I staggered towards the clubhouse only to be informed that, oh no, that was only the first nine holes, Kath.  We get to do it all over again.

I needed a beer.

I scanned the lobby and saw what I was looking for: the line of men.  The line of women, of course, was in front of the restroom (it is times like this that I am truly grateful that my toddler is not toilet-trained).  As I gleefully debated “beer, or wine?  Beer, or wine?”, my dreams were shattered by the youngster behind the counter who informed me that they were not serving alcohol at this event. “But,” I cried, “this is the event that we need alcohol at the MOST!”  He was unmoved.

So instead I purchased an unbendable piece of cardboard with Elmer’s glue on it, sold under the misnomer “pizza.”  Three dollars to almost lose a crown on something that could have been left over from that Rush concert.  Then it was back to our seats for round two of the Sesame Street gang doing their renditions of “Holding out for a Hero” and “Superman.”

It was a pretty harmless way to spend an afternoon, I suppose (we escaped Massachusetts unscathed); the only harm came to our wallets. I’m not sure our kids were really old enough to appreciate the pageantry and ribbon-gun finale.  But I did my motherly (and bloggerly) duty, and attended my first kiddie show.  I guess it’s all downhill from here – Nemo on Ice, Disney Princesses Tour, Dora the Explorer, the Musical.  I draw the line at Hannah Montana, however.

Anyone wanna go see Rush?

Thank you for reading this.

My personal coach and I have been working together for seven months.  Each telephone session, we set goals and figure out ways to achieve them.  I love being accountable to her and having deadlines for making things happen in my life.  Granted, everyone should be accountable to themselves, and that should be sufficient.  But some of us need an outside person to not let down, in order to not let ourselves down.  Anyone who’s joined an Anonymous support group or a weight loss program will attest to that.

So.  Here we are, the beginning of another twelve-month cycle.  Another random starting point for us all to refocus, regroup, renew.  The resolutions have been made, the wheels set in motion.  But how do we keep them going?  How do we stay positive and encouraged, excited and motivated?  How do we keep tackling the issues without letting the issues tackle us?

My coach had some advice:  Say thank you.

Motivational speaker and all-around kick-ass person Tony Robbins (one of my heroes) starts each day with what he calls “the hour of power.”  It involves giving gratitude, getting in some physical movement, and refocusing on what you want.  He also encourages visualizing what you want as having already happened.  I like that one.  I like seeing myself in my fully-actualized state.

Now, as to the first part: gratitude.  I told my coach that I felt I was a pretty thankful person – one of my friends nicknamed me “Thankleen” –  that I was very aware of all the things I have to be grateful for, and give thanks for them “at least quarterly.”  She politely suggested that perhaps I could bump that up a wee bit more often.  To, like, daily.

It’s good advice.  Try it some morning.  As you’re rushing around, stressed that you’ll be late for work, stop and think “Man, I’m so thankful I have a job.”  As you’re pounding away on the treadmill, feeling defeated, remember “At least I live in a country where I have the opportunity to become overweight.”  When you’re stuck in traffic, think “I’m so lucky to be able to afford to sit here alone in my own car, much less afford the gasoline.”  When your husband annoys the crap out of you, remind yourself “I’m so glad I have someone to come home to every night.”  And when your kid draws on the wall, think “at least we have walls.”

So… thank you.  Thank you for my health, for my fully-functioning body, for my lavish dwelling, for my owned vehicle, for my parents, my aunt, my job, my talents, my amazing friends.  Thank you for allowing me to be born in America.  Thank you for not making me live in poverty or pain or fear.

Thank you for my sweet, wonderful daughter.  Thank you for all the love I've experienced in my life.  Thank you for letting me wake up alive today.

Thank you for reading this.

Last week I did two things to secure a better future for myself and my daughter: I voted in the New Hampshire primary, and I started a diet.

I’m sure I speak for many New Hampshire residents when I tell you how relieved I am that the politicians and their posses have ridden off into the sunset.  It was truly crazy around here with the media circus and the frenzied supporters.  And frankly, if I heard the word “change” one more time, I was going to slit my throat with one of the ubiquitous fliers stuffed in my doorway.

I will cop to a funny(ish) story about voting, since although it shows me to be an idiot, hey, it’s entertaining for the reader.  When my father ran for local office last year and I went to the polling site, they asked me if I wanted to declare a party.  I thought (incorrectly) that I had to register for the same party as my father in order to vote for him.  So I did.  Now, months later, the blood drained from my head a few nights before the voting when I realized that I had not changed my party affiliation back to my own preferred one.  Well, I decided to go down and vote anyway, because there’s plenty of candidates that straddle party lines, and I knew I could at least vote strategically within the ‘other’ party.

When I got to the polling venue and said my last name, the man said “Nancy?”  I paused.  That was my mother.  She wasn’t going to vote today.  She was registered independent.  I could be her and vote for my own party!  That thought lasted about two seconds.  Clearly, I couldn’t do that in good conscience.  “No,” I replied, and took my own ballot.  After voting for the most contrary member of the ‘other’ party, I shuddered, went home, and took three showers.  I still feel dirty.  (Kidding)

I took my daughter to the polls with me.  I plan to always bring her, and instill in her the importance of making her voice heard.  I hope most women I know voted in the primary (or, in other states, will vote).  Consider the amazing power we have as a gender, as a voting bloc.  And consider how many women had to fight so hard to give us the opportunity.  Did you know that freed slaves got the vote fifty years before women did?

The other step I took towards a better future was signing up for my office version of The Biggest Loser.  Twenty of us at The Telegraph are going to compete for twelve weeks, and the person who loses the largest percentage of weight (as opposed to pounds – or tonnage) will win the money we put into the pot weekly. 

Our initial weigh-in was… painful.  I hadn’t been on a scale for a few weeks, and was horrified to see the results of my holiday gluttony.  But I’m back on track, eating amazing, delicious, healthy whole foods.  I even bought a used treadmill on craigslist.com today.  It’s non-electric, and a lot harder than a ‘regular’ one.  I also have some workout videos that I enjoy doing, and have set up some walking dates with friends.

I’m very hopeful that being in this high-visibility competition with  my co-workers will keep me on track, because it’s vital that I get back to a healthy weight and existence for my daughter.  I’m the only parent she’s got.  Not only would I like to be around long enough to become an annoying burden to her in my senior years (ha!), but I’d like to be able to keep up with her when we’re playing.

Tonight when I set up the treadmill, she immediately hopped on, grabbed the handle poles up front, and said “mama do!”  So I stood behind her and walked, moving the treadmill.  She trotted along handily.  When I stopped, winded, she said “mama, again!”  So I guess I have my own tiny trainer to help keep me moving, too!

As the Biggest Loser theme song goes: “What have you done today to make you feel proud?”

Well, this New Year’s Eve, I managed to get out of the house and celebrate with other adults.  My friends hosted game night, which is always fun.  There were snacks and drinks and cutthroat competitions.  I had my mind blown by two card tricks, which I doubt I will ever figure out.  Apparently, one is based on simple math.  But the other… that one surely has an element of the occult to it.  J

My two-year-old helped me de-ornament the Christmas tree today.  It’s the perfect job for her, since she’s been practicing for a month now, despite my pleas otherwise.  No, actually she was very respectful of “Mama’s tree.”  I took the advice I saw in a “Kid Tips” column in the Telegraph and bought her a small tree of her own.  “Mama tree, baby tree,” she explained to anyone around.  She had her own non-breakable ornaments, some little toys under it, and a tiny stocking taped to the adjacent wall.  It was pretty darn cute.

So here I sit, in my newly non-festive and unexpectedly barren-feeling condo, trying to decide how I want this new year to go.  Yes, there are the standard, universal resolutions: lose weight, save money, stop swearing like a sailor around my toddler (oh, you don’t do that?  Oh.  Um.).  I guess if I was to choose one word to capture the overall essence of my 2008 goals, it would be ‘streamline.’  Streamline the waistline.  Streamline the daily routine.  Streamline and organize the household possessions.  Streamline my journey to the future.

I started doing my annual end-of-the-year purge last week.  I uncluttered the breakfast nook (“Aerosmith’s in my breakfast nook!”  Reference? Anyone?), going through drawers of paper and computer detritus (that last word is for you, Ma).  I cleaned out a kitchen cabinet that was so jam-packed, it no longer closed.  I even installed my new printer/scanner, and made my computer desk actually usable again. 

But as many of you might know, you need to make a mess to clean a mess.  I no longer have my nice, empty dining room table, as it is filled with photos and empty albums that need to be matched up, and random things that don’t really have a home, hence their previous exile to the cabinets and drawers.  I also have a bunch of eBay stuff I’m selling for my parents, as they do a renovation.

Surrounded by my own clutter, I look at it and realize it’s not really junk that needs to go away.  It’s just the products of living.  It’s 3-D manifestations of memories, events, projects and plans.  But I do need to get a hold of it now, before the cumulative effect of decades happens.  I do subscribe to the “the best things in life aren’t things” belief, and it’s something I want to instill in my daughter before peer pressure kicks in.  So far she seems perfectly content with her reasonable amount of (mostly hand-me-down) toys, and the large box her new carseat came in.  So that’s good – although, it’s difficult to cram myself in said box when she says “Mama, box too!”

But then, I’ll be streamlining myself soon, so maybe that won’t be an issue for much longer.