I've been practicing yoga for about twelve years. It's been a huge part of my life and well being. As I've chronicled here before, I've had a number of teachers ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime. I've had a very comfortable role as a student in the back of the class.
Then somehow, one day, my teacher couldn't make class. My ability to be discreet, to camouflage myself was put to the test and I failed miserably.
This morning I found myself, as a substitute teacher, leading our little yoga flock. Talk about nerves! All that relaxation, deep breathing crap they espouse to the students bears NO influence on an unqualified teacher. During the sun salutation rounds I found myself light-headed as I told everyone else when to inhale and exhale. I just needed a paper bag for my frenetic hyperventilation. While I did not pass out, I did come dangerously close to starring in someone else's blog post.
Knowing my tiny brain was going to have a hard time keeping up with the rest of me, I pulled a Palin: writing some of the routine on my hand. I must admit, whether trying to remember the definition of basic foreign policy or whether pigeon pose comes after reverse warrior, it is an excellent strategy.
I am smarter than I look, and knew not to attempt any of the "wind" inducing postures that often cause me to clench my cheeks to maintain public discretion. I learn from the mistakes of others, and let's face it, I was only a sub.
Finally, it was time for the final relaxation. Getting the entire class on their backs looking at the ceiling promised to be my favorite part of the experience. As I led the guinea pigs, I mean students, through their relaxation I suddenly had a panicked thought: while no one could see me in this position, I couldn't see the clock. Needing to end on time, I kept lifting my head and one-eye peeking to see if five minutes had passed. Thirty seconds, forty-five seconds, one and a half minutes... I was like a kid waiting for school to let out. The sad part is I ruined my entire relaxation time.
When the final Namaste's were exchanged I finally could relax and exhale.
"It is not advisable James to venture unsolicited opinions. You should spare yourself the embarrassing discovery of their exact value to your listener." - Francisco d'Anconia, Atlas Shrugged
"The soundest way to raise revenues in the long run is to cut taxes now." - John F. Kennedy
I've been practicing yoga for about twelve years. It's been a huge part of my life and well being. As I've chronicled here before, I've had a number of teachers ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime. I've had a very comfortable role as a student in the back of the class.
Spending, eh hem, wasting - time on Facebook has opened up all sorts of new horizons for me. There are some fun aspects - like connecting with people who have had significant places in my life, but for reasons of distance or age we have lost contact. There are also some extremely witty people who enrich my life, and brighten my day with their little quips. One friend has a deep friendship with Jose Cuervo. Apparently Jose brings out the funny in him, because their antics are quite entertaining. Since my Aunt is the self proclaimed Tequila Fairy, I figure I should pay attention to what Jose is doing so I can keep an eye on her.
Another aspect of Facebook is the "Become a Fan" button. I'm not much of a joiner, and have eschewed this activity. But not so for many of my friends. Here is some of the 'fan roll' for today:
... joined the group Tom, Its Been 30 Years ... Your Not Going To Eat Jerry.
... became a fan of I get slightly worried when people say "Can I ask you something?"
... became a fan of "Who are you talking to?" "My mom, so shut up." "Tell her I say hi."
... joined the group "You Totally Just Crossed The Line!" "What Line?"
... became a fan of Pull up your pants, homeboy. You're white.
... became a fan of Ok, If we get caught here's the story... ·
... became a fan of The correct usage of "You're", "Your", "There", "Their" and "They're."
These options for belonging make for pretty interesting social commentary. Each time I log in there are invitations to join. Achieving that sense of belonging is such a huge part of the human experience. Hence the social networking within the social network.
Reflecting on this phenomenon, I realized I'm a HUGE DORK. While most people have become fans of witty things, and sports teams, I can think of only two things I am an official fan of. Yes, the above list is silly, but my personal list is downright geekness.
I am a fan of "Mandy Patinkin holding a gun while kissing babies"
"Of course," you say, that makes perfect sense.
Let me 'splain. No, there is too much, let me sum up. (From 'The Princess Bride) Mandy Patinkin played the sword-wielding Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride. While iconic in that role, "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father. Prepare to die!) another little known fact is that he is an amazing singer. One day while looking for information on Mandy, I came across the 'kissing babies' option, laughed out loud and joined.
I know this makes me seem interesting and witty in my own right. Here's where it goes bad:
I joined another group today, Reason Magazine. Let's just say 'Reason Magazine' is not the sort of material that the typical Facebook user is drawn to. After I joined, I took a look at how many people were also fans. All seven of us can have ourselves a nifty convention one day.
OK, there are a few more fans than seven, but Tickle Me Elmo has exponentially more fans than my little magazine. The reality is, things that draw other people don't really catch my attention. The upside of this is I don't spend much time around crowds. The downside: it puts a cramp my human need for belonging.
I am the only suburban mother I know that didn't attend the midnight showing of the Twilight movie. I like geek books. Geek magazines. Geek activities. I'm excited because later this week I am going to attempt to sew from tulle netting, a giant reverse tree-skirt that will catch mulberries as they fall from the tree. I have sketches, calculations and material samples. My sewing machine and I will have a grand time. And yes, I looked and there is not fan button for "Sewing reverse tree-skirts for mulberry trees"
But I am a huge fan.
This morning I received a coupon offer in my inbox for half off of laser tag. Woo hooo! My little family loves laser tag. Skulking around in a dark room with 30 people you've never met. Wearing a sweat-infused sensor vest worn by thousands before you. Identifying the weakling in the herd who has never played before and didn't know that the white on their shoe laces would fluoresce under the black lights - giving their location away to everyone in the room. Yeah, good times.
With the coupon, games were $4, which is a pretty good deal, so I picked up a few. As I read down the coupon, I started to giggle uncontrollably at an overzealous writer at the marketing department. Here is how they describe their laser experience:
"The cuddly lasers of Stratum Lasertag emit the perfect levels of nostalgic radiation to send any gamer's organic heart back to a more-innocent time of blacktop antics when tag was still played with hurled bottles and catapulted boulders."
I'm sorry, but what the heck? What part of that picture closes the deal? The cuddly lasers? Maybe the nostalgic radiation? Who doesn't miss the time when we played tag by hurling bottles at each other?
I'm going to tell the kids, "Kids, we don't need no pansy laser tag. We can just run around in the street hurling rocks and bottles at each other. It's cheaper and more authentic than simulated electronic substitutes." They will totally go for that. Although my option doesn't include any lasers to cuddle with.
Years ago, as I returned from a shopping trip at Target, Unnamed Child #1 watched in horror as I unpacked my purchases. Among the packages of diapers, baby food and laundry soap I had picked up a few outfits for their then toddler younger siblings.
Poor Unnamed Child #1 could not fathom that there was nothing in the bags for them. In an all too human outburst, the words, "It's just not fair!" came screeching out.
After trying to explain the situation to my unjustly treated progeny, I finally sighed and said, "Do you want me to make it fair?"
"Yes!" They pouted.
"You have it pretty good right now." I reasoned
"But it's not FAIR!"
Unnamed Child #1 has come to know the look in my eye and the tone in my voice which tip off a 'learning moment'. They know to try and shut things down as quickly as possible when they see that look or hear that tone. This comes from years of experience.
Toting a few large garbage bags I went into the child's room and started making things "Fair".
"Wow, three pairs of shoes, your siblings don't have that! That's not 'Fair'. Underwear? They still wear diapers, that's not 'Fair'. Books? They can't read, this isn't 'Fair'. Special grown-up kid toys? They don't have these, that's not 'Fair'."
The garbage bags quickly filled with 'unfair' belongings as the child was completely freaking out.
But I wasn't done.
Looking around the room, I noted that the toddler siblings still slept in cribs. They didn't have a 'big bed'. Well, that's just not 'Fair' I exclaimed as I dragged the mattress out to the garage.
Dusting off my hands, I figured I had inflicted enough emotional damage for the day and exclaimed, "There, now that's 'Fair'!" and left the room. The stupefied kid sat on the floor of the remains of their once personal and special space sobbing hysterically.
The reality of life is that NOTHING is 'Fair'. Making things 'Fair' is not only unjust to those that have things others don't have, it also makes everything pretty stark.
Our president and his posse are very clear in their belief in 'Social Justice', in the redistribution of wealth and the responsibility of the government to make things fair. People, like one of the founders of Google, Sergei Brin, who has lived through the implementation of this concept, understand all to well the inherent problems with this idea. Right now, most Americans don't seem to get it.
Under "Fair" things don't get better. Ever.
To this day, when one of the younger kids in my family makes the statement: "That's not fair!" Their older, wiser sibling will yell out "STOOOOOP!!! YOU DON'T WANT FAIR!!" Lesson learned... by a six year old.
Why can't the rest of us get it?
Wonder what else we're gonna find in this bill we "had to pass so we could find out what was in it"? It says a whole lot about our legislative process that leaders vote for laws they haven't even read. Good thing we rushed this through:
Details on the new bill
Recently a news item hit our papers, a ruling is iminent in the toothless-carp pedicure case. Yes, you read that right. Apparently in my glamorous locale, a salon has instituted toothless-carp pedicures where the slimy buggers will gum away dead skin and callouses from patron's feet.
Let me just give you a moment to stop the dry heaving.
OK, nasty as I find the whole idea of carp sucking on my feet (shudder), I cannot fathom how we have gotten to this point as a society. Yeah, yeah, yeah I know there are all sorts of plausible arugments about the expectations of cleanliness at a salon, the duty of the proprietor to maintain hygenic standards blah blah blah. Look, if you're stupid enough to want to put your feet in a poopy carp-filled vat and have them gnaw on your tootsies - and then to pay for the whole experience, you should be allowed to do just that. The notion that government needs to protect us from everything has gotten so far out of hand that dockets are being filled with this nonsense.
Here's a case that's perfect for Judge Judy, the capitalist's solution to judicial insanity. I think every municipality should have a public arbiter of nonsense. Someone who would triage recently filed cases, pick the stupidist ones for their docket and then broadcast the whole sordid scene over the web. I would pay a dollar to see that.
I truly can't understand how we have evolved into a society that tries desperately to protect it's citizenry from EVERYTHING, yet judicially forwards the annual Darwin Award e-mail that floats around to everyone in our address books. Look, it's not the government's job to protect us from fish. Foreign invasion - they're on it, but callous-eating fish? Let's focus people.
I'm trying to figure out the rosy side of the recent legislative events. So far I haven't come up with anything substantive. The system IS broken. It absolutely needs fixing...but have we done the right thing?
Shortly after I tricked hubby into marrying me we were enjoying marital bliss in our new home when we had a kitchen water incident. Fortunately it was not me that caused it. (Honest!) It involved a lot of potato peels and a garbage disposal installed by a non- cook. Needless to say, there was a lot of back-up, and a lot of spillage. Both not good words when referring to an in home water incident.
A few days after we thought the incident was handled, we were sitting in the basement. I looked up at the ceiling and in a bizarre inverted quilt pattern, the drywall tapes were sagging from water collection. We immediately stood on the arms of the couch and tried to poke at the tapes, they were a mess.
We waited a few days for them to dry out and in the meantime discussed our repair options. Since there was no paint damage, I had the idea we get a syringe, fill it with adhesive and inject, using the smallest possible needle, adhesive into the bubble to try and re-attach it to the ceiling. In my convoluted brain I thought the delicate approach was worth a try.
Hubby had different ideas. They involved a chain saw and a pick axe.
The final solution involved calling in professionals to fix what "we" had messed up.
I fear today, we not only injected a bunch of superglue then applied a chain saw and a pick axe to our healthcare problem and in this case, there are no professionals who can clean it up.
For the life of me, I can't figure how hiring 16,000 new IRS agents could ever be a good thing.
I can't understand how the convoluted accounting methodology they have used to claim this monstrosity is "deficit neutral" seems accepted by so many people.
I don't know a person who enjoys going to the DMV, the post office or thinks Medicare has been run well. Using that track record, are we kidding?
I suppose a lot of us in America try to 'fix' things and create bigger problems, so we can relate. But today's events are way worse than the bailing wire holding the bumper of our van in place.
Of that, I am sure.
Having a summer birthday has had a negative impact on my ability to appropriately honor milestones. This being said, I missed an important one yesterday... this post is my 202nd post since I started my foray into public humiliation. I have to say, sharing my shame has had a very therapeutic effect.
Despite this free therapy, I do pause for a moment when I realize that there have been over 200 posts, mostly involving stupid things I've done, or shouldn't have done. Hardly something to brag about. And, while my confidence may dip a little at this realization, it has been buoyed by the fact that I have reached another milestone: my 40th follower! Public follower that is.
Apparently, to some of you, my blog is a 'dirty little secret' as I get daily e-mails from non-public followers commenting on my post, lack of post, the fact that they saw me in the grocery store and turned the other way... and then felt badly because they realized that is something I would have done and have clearly rubbed off on them.
So, in honor of my achievements, today everyone shall allow themselves some: getting caught rocking out to a song in the car by another driver, shameless bakery goods theft, public flatulence, less than stellar parenting followed by donations to your children's therapy funds, and touchy wildlife encounters. Be free! Free in the knowledge that as far as dorkness goes - I have you beat by at least 201.
With more to come...
We were fortunate enough to celebrate Spring Break last week. After years of traveling out of Arizona during what is arguably the best week of weather we get, we decided to stay put. There were a tremendous number of upsides to this plan. No travel, no packing, no dog sitting arrangements...I must say, it was a great decision.
It did have it's moments though. Feeling somewhat obligated to help entertain my kids, I agreed to activities I might otherwise avoid. A neighbor called and wanted to go to the roller skating rink. Seeing it was St. Patrick's Day, and if one wore green they were admitted for 99 cents, I figured, what the heck.
Let's just say, OH MY HECK!!!
Standing in line at the small city skating arena, an inordinate number of extremely overweight people surrounded me. While this might not cause any adverse reaction on a good day, every single one of them were clad in kelly green and surrounded by their leprechaun spawn. This adventure had Twilight Zone written all over it.
My kids, on the other hand, were in heaven. As we entered the rarely cleaned, roller disco inferno they could barely contain their enthusiasm as they laced up their oddly-smelling, well-used roller apparati. At first I was telling myself to take deep breaths, but quickly abandoned that plan as the aroma of Lysol, sweat and cheap cheese pizza blended into a nauseating bouquet.
I don't do crowds well. For some reason it seems everyone wants to lean against me, spill on me or as I had the good fortune during this outing, loose their footing on skates and fall grabbing on to my leg. Yep. Good times.
Once the kids were laced up and set free I settled myself at a frighteningly sticky table, ready to converse with my friend.
Over the lovely repetitive strains of My Sherona, the top-of-our-lungs conversation went something like this:
"The kids look like they're having fun!"
"No, I don't think we're quite done."
"Would you like me to get some food?"
"Yes that lady does have an attitude."
You get the drift. After about a minute of this futility, I settled in to people watch. There is something special about the time-warped patrons the roller rink attracts. A sinewy woman in her 70's had staked out the center of the floor and was doing all sorts of roller boogie tricks.
Deftly weaving in and out of the green-clad novices was a portly fellow, in too-short, too-tight attire he once wore in high school. I have to hand it to him, if you're gonna wear that get-up, complete with knee-high socks, you sure as heck better be able to skate. He could skate. So my gaze vascilated between amusement and fascination as I muttered to my self, "look away, look away..." but never did.
That Wednesday night, in the city named "Most Boring in Arizona" we shut down the Skateland. My personal leprechauns moonwalked to the minivan begging for a return visit.
Yeah, maybe they have an April Fool's special...
I'm not much of a purse person. (Purseon?) All of my stylish friends have multiple handbags, in multiple colors, styles and labels. I have a purse purchased two years ago at Target. (Pronounced tar-jay) This purse should last me another four years. It replaced a purse that lasted about seven years, and also came from Target. My purse matches none of my shoes. People have asked me what brand my purse is, since usually everyone in the room has a brand name purse. It is so exclusive it doesn't even have a name, but it does have a label inside that says it was inspected by #7. #7 also put a little silica pack inside one of the zipper compartments, just for me. Fortunately it had instructions not to eat it, since I am prone to eat random unidentified things I find.
This week I attended a women's meeting at church that centered around a purse theme. The invitation played on the word 'purse' and stressed you should bring your purse.
I mull over the social ramifications of going into this situation blindly and figure I should look inside my purse, just to make sure there's nothing too scary in there. I confess, my purse is a catch-all for the fringes of my life. I rarely carry it on my arm, choosing instead to set it on the floor so I can fill it with the random bits and pieces I collect in my daily travels - cleaning it out biannually.
Underneath the dead squirrel and the set of keys to unknown locks I found a stash of crap that embarrassed even me. As I dumped the contents on to my desk my own version of the Sesame Street theme "all of these things are not like the others" kept running through my head.
Besides the expected receipts, loose change and food items, I had a broken Christmas ornament in the shape of a Schwinn bicycle. There was a chocolate hazelnut Kosher candy bar, inscribed in Hebrew, I picked up at my favorite Jewish deli. A plastic fork, a mis-matched set of dice, a paint swatch card of my house paint. There was a twenty peso note from my last trip to Mexico. A Cheesecake Factory gift card, library cards, Science center membership cards a packet of Goo for my next distance training run. Alcohol wipes, mouth guard, dental floss, and of course, a shark tooth.
I stared at the menagerie of crap, stunned at what a magnet I seem to be. It was a Jekyl and Hyde sort of moment. My closet is freakishly organized, all my clothing sorted and hung by color and sleeve length. My closet and my purse would not get along.
After consulting my personal Magic Eight ball - otherwise known as my Facebook Status Update - I decided that I should pack up my life, as I really am, and brave the party.
Upon entering the room invitees were supposed to weigh their purses. Fearing that my ridiculous collection of items would break the scale, I was shocked that it weighed only 3.9 lbs. The woman after me weighed 14.8 lbs. I gave her the recommendation for a good chiropractor.
We then settled in to the 'meat' of the evening - the whole reason I came: the game. In my mind I had decided that there was no possible way I could be trumped when comparing the selection of items I had amassed. I pictured myself standing atop a pedestal receiving the "Coolest Collection" trophy, and "Most Interesting Person" sash.
True to the reality of my life, most people do not operate on the same unique mental plane I find myself skating along. Instead of us collectively sharing the contents of our handbags, the emcee called out an item and participants were to run to the front of the room and drop their item in another purse. The first person to accomplish this task would win a candy bar.
Two problems with this scenario: 1. My table was the very farthest table from the front. 2. The incentive of a candy bar seemed pale compared with the trophy I imagined I should win.
The third problem, which was the most disappointing of all, was the list of items they were requesting: lip gloss, needle and thread, keys, car wash receipt, cell phone. B-O-R-I-N-G!!!
I had some of the items - a mad dash to the front of the room with my roll of stamps won me a Twix bar. Yet, as each mundane and benign item was called out, a little of me died inside.
Finally the category created just for me was announced: The Most Unique Item. I grabbed my shark tooth and triumphantly sprinted to the front. (Those of you who know me, know I have a slightly overinflated competitive streak). As I paraded my exfoliated tooth back and forth in front of the podium I swelled with pride. No one could beat a shark tooth. No one.
Except the ladies with the Gas-X and the paint sample wheel. When the emcee announced that we were all winners, I stomped back to my seat, refusing in protest to select from the remaining candy items. Shark tooth deserved its own prize. It represented everything unique and interesting about me. Everyone in the room wanted to sit by the lady with the shark tooth. I mean really, given a choice who would you pick? Shark tooth or Gas-X lady. Sheesh.
I thought so.
My name has been the source of consternation for other people my whole life. I eventually deadened to the humiliation of the first day of school roll taking. It ALWAYS went like this: Susan, Fred, Tammy, Joseph, uh, um, A...A....A.... - "Yes, that's me!" I would call out. My odd name has provided years of entertainment as people have wrangled all sorts of bizarre pronunciations from the six tiny letters that configure my moniker.
Ash-e-lyzz, Abertha, Aiyslee. And my favorite, a typed letter from my insurance company that read: Sdr;om. I did spend the time to figure out that the rocket scientist who typed the letter had shifted to the right, and would have typed it correctly had their fingers felt for the little placement dots on F and J.
I get that it's a unique name, and that people have trouble with new things, but still. I once dated a young man, rather seriously for over a year. Upon meeting his mother for the first time she exhaled mightily, heavily sighing out in relief "Oh, I thought you were black!" Yeah, sorry to disappoint you.
As I have aged, the uniqueness has been trumped by celebrities and civilians alike. I mean, really, Blanket? Dweezil? My neighbor named her daughter "Story". There are all sorts of creative people out there.
So, imagine my flattery when I learn that one of the young tikes I babysat as a teen named her child after me. Not just liked my name and used it, but actually told my mother that she named her baby after me. Imagine the swelled head I'm getting from this news. I mean, After? Wow. I didn't think I was a particularly good babysitter - but I guess I left a powerful adolescent impression on my young charge.
I'll have to make sure I set a good example for this little one. There are a lot of important lessons I should share. While I know it's still early, I have all sorts of life tips like how to put on make-up, dating advice, how to choose a fantastic husband.. things that really matter.
I decide to look through the birth announcements so I can see the details on little Aselin. There were a lot of babies born in my little hometown the same week, and the paper is full of these little darlings - all with unique names:
• Lilah Dean Jones was born to Thomas III and Andrea.
• Colt Bryan Smith was born to Cullen and Danielle.
• Dresden Michael Sanchez was born to Michael and Tana.
• Maeve Marguerite Taylor was born to Tyler and Jamie.
• Maximilian Alexander White was born to Michael and Claudia.
• Aselin James Ray was born to Douglas and Julie.
Gff - choke -gag... Aselin James? What the heck?
What kind of impression did I leave on this girl? I may have to re-think some of my advice.
Education is a big deal in our home. From the early selection of teaching methods: Saxon? Spalding? Montessori? Preschool? Charter school? Music? Foreign languages? Our kids have been exposed and instructed in a number of core concepts.
As a stay-at-home mom I worked tirelessly to prepare my kids to enter the educational system. Unnamed child #1 was singing in Spanish before she started Kindergarten. All three children were reading at three. One kid took physics in 6th grade. The curriculum was identical to my college physics syllabus. All play string instruments and piano. Unnamed child #2 and #3 are taking Mandarin Chinese AND Spanish at school. We are a colony of geeks living under one roof.
Last week I had to take Unnamed Child #1 to the doctor. Sitting in the waiting room, I was amazed at the spectrum of humanity. There were fellow geeks, with their kids in school uniforms (I gave them a mental high-five) all the way down to a frightening woman stuffed so tightly into a pair of spandex tights that the seams could barely contain her corpulence. We not only shielded our eyes from the 'not-left-to-our-imagination' view, but we hid behind our magazines for protection from potential popping projectiles.
Unnamed child #1 asked if they could fill out all the forms. Sure! Besides the beard-growingly long wait in the waiting room, filling out the forms is the most tedious part of the whole experience. As I'm supervising the process, I'm impressed; the kid does really, really well. I have clearly raised self-sufficient, intelligent people who will leave the nest and contribute to society. As I'm picturing the kid on a platform being awarded the Rhodes scholarship I'm jolted back to reality by: "Mom, how do you spell 'knee'?"
I look incredulously at the kid, who is sheepishly grinning back.
"You mean the 'knee' from 'Head-Shoulders-Knees-and-Toes? That knee?"
The crouching kids winces, "Yessss," as an older couple to our left snickers a little. Now I know, normally it would be cruel to laugh at a child, but this child thinks they're getting a driver's license pretty soon so they deserved the public humiliation.
"Oh, yeaaaaah" as if they were testing me rather than filling in their own mental void.
I roll my eyes and go back to my People magazine, the guilty pleasure of the doctor's office.
Moments later the same kid says, "Mom, your phone doesn't work!!!" I lean over to see what's going on, since it worked when we entered the office. "Look, I keep trying to text my friend that I'm at the doctor and it won't let me put in the word 'doctor'. See? D-O-C-T-E... E...E see it won't let me put in the "E."
Good grief. I've spawned a ding-a-ling. I share with her the correct spelling, to which we both get a good snorting chuckle. Maybe my hopes for their surgical career should be notched down a bit. I wonder if they know how to spell "surgeon"?
I wonder if Spandex lady knows how to spell doctor?
This is a repost of a fan favorite. Enjoy!
Somehow I've actually paid to be able to communicate less with my children. These new orthodontic appliances have made it extremely hard to understand anything they say. Quite frankly, I'm sure their teachers aren't calling on them in school.
Sitting around the dinner table hubby and I are conducting the nightly ritual of finding out the happenings of their day. It's going something like this:
"So, Unnamed child #1, what did you do today?"
"I had a fantastic day expanding my growing mind with the wonders of learning and possibility."
"Great. Unnamed child #2, how did your day go?"
"Wrble Grumph farqua harku zeelef!"
"Um, great." Figuring that requesting a repetition was pointless we move on.
"Unnamed child #3, how was your day?'
Fortunately this child's palate has expanded rapidly, and therefore the diction is not as garbled. Not clear mind you, but less garbled than #2.
"Today in science (pronounced thienthe) we pwayed where's my penuth"
I choke on my water. Hubby's eyes bug out and the other unnamed children completely lose composure. (BTW, I'm not explaining this to you if you didn't figure it out. Read it out loud if you're confused).
What are they teaching you at that school? We all realize that what is being explained is not what it sounds like, but Unnamed Child #3 keeps talking despite our gffaws. Apparently the class conducted a science experiment that gathered data on some shell-on roasted peanuts. What was being reported was an escalating series of:
"Then I weighed my penuth." "Then I measured my penuth." and finally "We all put our penuths in a basket."
We had completely lost our composure. Doubled over, the four non-scientists were chortling and snorting like the herd of juveniles we are. What made it more entertaining was Unnamed Child #3's complete oblivion to what was going on.
"What is so funny about my penuth?"
Wiping the tears from my eyes I'm completely unable to explain. There is really nothing funny about a penuth.
You would have to live under a rock to have missed out on Tigerfest 2010. The dalliances, indiscretions and unbelievable sleaze characterizing Mr. Wood's life have dominated the mainstream media the last few weeks. After a day of it I was done, but apparently the rest of America was not, so it continued.
Just when I thought the fever pitch had died down, and things were returning to normal I watched an interview with Attorney Gloria Allred that made my head fly off my neck. The publicity-loving, feminist attorney sat, next to Joslyn James, a porn star, who claims she 'gave it all up for Tiger' and was in love with him. Allred proceeded to demand, straight-faced that her client was entitled to, and demanded, an apology for lying to her and breaking her heart.
The woman cheating with a married man got her feelings hurt and wants and apology? She and her high-priced attorney were 'deeply offended' that Tiger apologized to his family and did not apologize to his paramour. Waaah, waaah, waaah.
Fascinating how Allred can argue she's all for women's rights yet completely obscure women's responsibility when there's a camera lens in there room. Here's a suggestion for Ms. James: Don't date married men. (Gasp!!! I know, I'm a genius!)
Well, that will teach Tiger to hang out with scum as scummy as he is. And I'm sure he's a quick learner.
Oh, and Tiger, there are some parasites penicillin doesn't get rid of.
I get a number of people requesting my blog address. This is flattering, but I always hesitate a little since I'm not sure if this is because they really want to read my musings, or if it's how polite conversation has evolved. No longer do we only hear "Have a nice day", and "I'll call you," now we have "Send me your blog address."
Mostly, we know that "Let's do lunch" doesn't really mean that. I get "Let's get together soon" all the time and I am not sitting by the phone with my daytimer open waiting to schedule the date. I accept and am not remotely insulted by the profound insincerity in that statement. But the new, "Send me your blog" request has me a little stumped.
On the one hand, I would like lots of people to read and enjoy my blog. Of course. On the other hand... the requests usually come from someone who has heard from someone that my blog is "really funny." The pressure in that is HUGE. Like Final Exam huge. And, if they are just being polite, then is it a little self promoting to actually send them the blog link? I don't know.
Yesterday I got another request, via facebook. Interestingly enough, my address is right under my profile photo - so I think It's pretty easy to see without my help. So, I get this request and actually mull how sincere it is. I finally give in to my vanity and type the address in to the comment box. In order to send a web link you must enter security words. I'm used to doing this, anyone who tries to comment or order tickets in cyberspace knows how to do this.
As I'm wrestling with whether or not I should actually send this link the two words pop up, reminding me not to take myself so seriously: Crap & apparent.
The universe has my number.
Hi Peeps. I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, I've just been so consumed with the minutia of my life that I haven't blogged in a while. I have a new, St. Patrick's Day commitment to be better. Our time together is one of the joys of my life.
So what does constitute a 'good excuse'? My reference to falling off the 'face of the earth' is not as oblique as it may seem. This week I hosted three girlfriends for a few days of "fun." Now, let's be clear about something: I define "fun" as a sedentary activity. One that requires lots of sitting, reading, maybe some writing. I've had an entirely thrilling morning working at my desk and watching bees in the apple tree outside my window. Whoooo-weeeeee.
This is not true for my friends. Little did I know, prior to their coming, one of them said, "This is going to be a 'Go and Do' vacation." Had I known this I would not have picked them up at the airport. Apparently, 'Go and Do' involves 7 a.m. wallyball followed by a 3 mile run, a quick lunch (which I cook) then a drive out to meet our rappelling guide. Four hours of rappelling (which, by the way, does not just involve the 'coming down' part. There is also the 'going up' part, which involved a rather strenuous climb through a crevice.) a quick shower, a huge dinner and then a comedy club show. That was just ONE day. By the time my head hit the pillow at night I was drooling with exhaustion.
In fairness, I am their elder by a few years, but they should have respected their elders and let me sit in the car. Instead, they played a cat-and-mouse game trying to get sneaky photos of each other in random positions. Sleep was not excluded from this game, so I had to sleep with one eye open. These crazies are the same friends highlighted under a previous post Girl Lists. My REM deprived brain is glad they're gone. I mean, I really, really, miss them.
So imagine my dismay when, after repeatedly hurling myself off the side of Papago Peaks during our rappelling activity that I learn the present impact of the Chilean earthquake. During the earthquake the Earth actually contracted as one continental plate went under another plate, shrinking the earth six feet, but speeding up the rotation of the earth by 1.26 microseconds. The earth literally spun off of its axis - speeding up time, shortening the days... rocking my world.
I'm just too tired to have time go any faster. The idea that I have both jumped off one of the Earth's edges AND that the same Earth shrunk makes my brain hurt.
Less time, less space - we lost 1.26 microseconds people!!!
I need a nap.