It's one of those weeks where there's no fresh fruit or vegetables in the house and Frito pie actually seems like a pretty healthful dinner option because there is corn in those corn chips, right? The doggas are beyond needing a bath, needing to go to the vet and needing to get back on a walking schedule because they're obviously mad at us (probably because they want Frito pie, too) and have crapped and pissed in the house THREE TIMES in the past week.

The toddler needs shoes de charol for grandma's wedding this weekend (on a perfect 10.10.10) and winter shoes or boots and a whole winter wardrobe for that matter so she doesn't freeze her butt off in high-water pants and sandals.

I think we're out of milk, too. Ugh.

My roots need some serious camouflage. My heels need a sander. My fast-on-their-way-to-wizard-sleeve arms need a Shake weight. My fingers need a rest because I think I'm developing carpal tunnel and my arms and hands go to sleep at night. Good thing they do though, because at least part of me is sleeping. I need some serious sleep -- starting with ignoring the toddler when she cries at 3 a.m. and letting her fall back asleep IN HER OWN CRIB. I'm seriously done with getting kicked in the face every half hour from helicopter child in my bed. My lip started bleeding yesterday morning from the toddler blow. This is mama abuse.

The most frustrating thing I'm trying to deal with right now, though, is that in between work, life, family, and blogging I'm also trying my best to follow a running schedule so that I actually can cross the finish line for a half-marathon the husband and I are set to do (but not together, apparently, because I'm too slow. I'm like a Clydesdale, apparently. Nice. I should at least get Budweiser to sponsor me in that case.) next month. To his credit, the husband is really trying to be a good motivator by sending me links to running blogs he thinks might inspire me. Although throwing in the word Clydesdale in our running conversation isn't exactly an ego booster. I'm just numb to inspiration, apparently, no matter what I do, what I listen to or what I read. And this is totally an aside, but we get Runner's World and I was thinking, first, that every single cover seems to have the same woman on it, and second, where are the Latinas at? Apparently, not running because they ain't on the pages of this mag. Just saying.

I'm in a running funk. Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face is my preferred "power song." More like zone out and let me get through it song. I play it on repeat, with a few annoying ke$ha songs thrown in.

I did find some comfort reading Culture Mami right now talking about the life/running juggle and the run-up to the marathon she's running in two weeks. I have no aspirations to do 26.2 miles, but I totally admire women, especially mamacitas, who do. I don't know how other moms feel, but birthing is hard up until the point when the anesthesiologist rides in on his/her white horse to put in that glorious epidural. By comparison, running a ten mile race last spring made me feel like my uterus was going to fall out of my vajeen (como dijo Borat. Yes, I'm fond of quoting such high-brow folks, I know).

And in other good news (since I'm so full of it today), a new study shows how the thinner a woman is, the bigger her paycheck is bound to be. Average-weight women are penalized by earning less, and obese women can forget-about-it.

But the fatter a dude is, the fatter his wallet gets.

So. Not. Fair.

Everything on my to-do list will get done, I know. It usually does. But right now my fingers are tingling which means one thing -- Bed Time!! And its after midnight. Lord, where did the day go?

I'm on a kids listserv for my neighborhood. Mostly, I'm a lurker. Just slog down the email when it hits my inbox, take in other people's carefully collected info about schools, petty crime, nanny shares, clothes swaps -- but I don't ever participate. Sometimes I want to chime in that I'll take that free tricycle, or scream at the person selling their three year old well-worn stroller for $500 (I know the economy is ailing but if you could afford it in the first place, don't be pinche--pay it forward).

Every few weeks a new string pops up about a playdate some parent is interested in setting up at their house or the park. There's usually some hand-wringing about snacks that comes along: Regular or sugar-reduced juice? What about the children with food allergies? It has a start and end time, and sometimes, a parent will just throw out there that their wonderful bilingual nanny will also be there. Let me not even get started on that one.

So, from what I gather, the playdate is just like a little party with no cake, gifts or birthday child but full of awkward conversation with passive-aggressive, competitive adults you don't know but who are secretly judging your child against theirs. I probably have my sister-in-law to thank for my strong aversion to playdates, with her horror tales of other mothers at the park and their breast-pumping talent wars and over-sharing and sizing you up.

So the truth is, I can check off damn near three-fourths of the list on Stuff White People Like, but playdates is something I just can't swallow. The fact that you have to make an appointment for your children to play is just super weird to me. I say this even though my husband and I are total work/tech nerds who fire Outlook Calendar Requests to each other all the time for things like doctor's appointments; dogga, dad or mom grooming; dad's "I have to attend this" happy hour with co-workers; mom's "pre-paid therefore I can't miss it" yoga; etc.  Officialish stuff. But scheduling play time for your kids just seems to cross a boundry I don't want to even tread near. Like Canada.

I asked my mom the other day if she ever set us up for playdates, and after a long pause she was like, um, well, my friends would bring their kids over or I'd take you over to their house and we'd talk and you all would go outside to play.

Exactly!

Outside.

I was out of her watchful eye. I was able to shenanigize freely. Run around the house playing hide-n-seek. Climb up a tree and nearly break my leg jumping back down. Shoot cans with a beebee gun (no, seriously). Take a Coke from the frig and guzzle it down while she wasn't looking. Not that my mom cared about that -- I distinctly remember drinking Coke from my baby bottle at 2 years old. And Tang. Ah, the innocent days before all this corn syrup spoiler crap.

I was a free child! No parents sitting around watching my every move. And when I was a toddler, well, I toddled around the house and played with my three brothers or multitude of cousins. A-ha, and there it is. Yes, us Mexican-Americans and other Latinos do have that advantage of large families, huh. The built-in playdate that lasts 'til you turn 18.

Every time I see a new playdate message I think about how I wish I lived closer to family--to my brothers and their kids. I know playdates are the new reality of the modern family who lives far from family, or safety and all that. Yeah, yeah. I read. But doesn't mean I'm not going to lament about the way things were, when you didn't have to think so hard about your child playing. I'll still opt for getting together with friends I already know or co-workers with kids and just say "let's hang out." Let's lose the formality. It spoils the fun.